Part 8 (1/2)
O pleasant Earth! This happy home!
The darling at my knee!
My own dear wife! Thyself, old Friend!
And must it come to me That any face shall fill my place Unknown to them and thee?
RUSSET PITCHER.
”The pot goeth so long to the water til at length it commeth broken home.”
Away, ye simple ones, away!
Bring no vain fancies. .h.i.ther; The brightest dreams of youth decay, The fairest roses wither.
Ay, since this fountain first was planned, And Dryad learnt to drink, Have lovers held, knit hand in hand, Sweet parley at its brink.
From youth to age this waterfall Most tunefully flows on, But where, ay, tell me where are all The constant lovers gone?
The falcon on the turtle preys, And beardless vows are brittle; The brightest dream of youth decays,-- Ah, love is good for little.
”Sweet maiden, set thy pitcher down, And heed a Truth neglected:-- _The more this sorry world is known, The less it is respected_.
”Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold, It flatters and beguiles; Though Giles is young, and I am old, Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.
”Thy pitcher may some luckless day Be broken coming hither; Thy doting slave may prove a knave,-- The fairest roses wither.”
She laughed outright, she scorned him quite, She deftly filled her pitcher; For that dear sight an anchorite Might deem himself the richer.
Ill-fated damsel! go thy ways, Thy lover's vows are lither; The brightest dream of youth decays, The fairest roses wither.
These days were soon the days of yore; Six summers pa.s.s, and then That musing man would see once more The fountain in the glen.
Again to stray where once he strayed, Through copse and quiet dell, Half hoping to espy the maid Pa.s.s tripping to the well.
No light step comes, but, evil-starred, He finds a mournful token,-- There lies a russet pitcher marred,-- The damsel's pitcher broken!
Profoundly moved, that muser cried, ”The spoiler has been hither; O would the maiden first had died,-- The fairest rose must wither!”
He turned from that accursed ground, His world-worn bosom throbbing; A bow-shot thence a child he found, The little man was sobbing.
He gently stroked that curly head,-- ”My child, what brings thee hither?
Weep not, my simple one,” he said, ”Or let us weep together.
”Thy world, I ween, is gay and green As Eden undefiled; Thy thoughts should run on mirth and fun,-- Where dwellest thou, my child?”
'Twas then the rueful urchin spoke:-- ”My daddy's Giles the ditcher, I fetch the water,--and I've broke ...