Part 24 (2/2)

Sipper of ancient flagons, Often the lonesome boy Saw in the farmers' wagons The chariots hurled at Troy.

Trundling in dust and thunder They rumbled up and down, Laden with princely plunder, Loot of the tragic Town.

And once when the rich man's daughter Smiled on the boy at play, Sword-storms, giddy with slaughter, Swept back the ancient day!

War steeds shrieked in the quiet, Far and hoa.r.s.e were the cries; And Oh, through the din and the riot, The music of Helen's eyes!

Stabbed with the olden Sorrow, He slunk away from the play, For the Past and the vast To-morrow Were wedded in his To-day.

IV

Rich with the dreamer's pillage, An idle and worthless lad, Least in a prosy village, And prince in Allahabad;

Lover of golden apples, Munching a daily crust; Haunter of dream-built chapels, Wors.h.i.+pping in the dust;

Dull to the worldly duty, Less to the town he grew, And more to the G.o.d of Beauty Than even the grocer knew!

V

Corn for the buyers, and cattle -- But what could the dreamer sell?

Echoes of cloudy battle?

Music from heaven and h.e.l.l?

Spices and bales of plunder Argosied over the sea?

Tapestry woven of wonder, And myrrh from Araby?

None of your dream-stuffs, Fellow, Looter of Samarcand!

Gold is heavy and yellow, And value is weighed in the hand!

VI

And yet, when the years had humbled The Kings in the Realm of the Boy, Song-built bastions crumbled, Ash-heaps smothering Troy;

Thirsting for shattered flagons, Quaffing a brackish cup, With all of his chariots, wagons -- He never could quite grow up.

The debt to the ogre, To-morrow, He never could comprehend: Why should the borrowers borrow?

Why should the lenders lend?

Never an oak tree borrowed, But took for its needs -- and gave.

Never an oak tree sorrowed; Debt was the mark of the slave.

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