The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 14

When I awoke; but strangely comforted, Although I knew again that she was dead.

III

Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad?

Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, Present reward of all my heart's desire, Watching with me beside the winter fire, Interpret now this vision that I had.

But while you read the meaning, let me keep The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm Is pa.s.sing through the midnight, and doth shake The corners of the house,--and oh! my heart would break Unless both dreaming and awake My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!

1905.

THE VAIN KING

In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, A giant ruby glittered in his crown: Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town, In him the glories of an ancient line Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine, Were centred; and to him with loyal awe The people looked for leadership and law.

Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land, Were like a single sword within his hand; A hundred courts, with power of life and death, Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath; And all the sacred growths that men had known Of order and of rule upheld his throne.

Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart As fits a man to play a royal part.

Not his the pride that honours as a trust The right to rule, the duty to be just: Not his the dignity that bends to bear The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care, And labours like the peasant at his gate, To serve the people and protect the State.

Another pride was his, and other joys: To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, With which he played at glory's idle game, To please himself and win the wreaths of fame.

The throne his fathers held from age to age, To his ambition seemed a fitting stage Built for King Martin to display at will, His mighty strength and universal skill.

No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries At every step to win admiring eyes, No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws From gaping crowds the thunder of applause, Was vainer than the King: his only thirst Was to be hailed, in every race, the first.

When tournament was held, in knightly guise The King would ride the lists and win the prize; When music charmed the court, with golden lyre The King would take the stage and lead the choir; In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; In painting, he would wield the master's brush; In high debate,--"the King is speaking! Hush!"

Thus, with a restless heart, in every field He sought renown, and made his subjects yield.

But while he played the petty games of life His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; Corruption through the court unheeded crept, And on the seat of honour justice slept.

The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor Groaned under burdens grievous to endure; The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, And weakness wore the nation's heart away.

Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes-- Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; And when a patient people are oppressed, The land that bore them feels it in her breast.

Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; The trees complain together in the night, Voices of wrath are heard along the height, And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, To bring the tyrant low and free the land.

But little recked the pampered King of these; He heard no voice but such as praise and please.

Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, One day he wandered idly with his court Beside the river, seeking to devise New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes.

There in the stream a patient angler stood, And cast his line across the rippling flood.

His silver spoil lay near him on the green: "Such fish," the courtiers cried, "were never seen!

Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft-- This man must be the master of his craft!"

"An easy art!" the jealous King replied: "Myself could learn it better, if I tried, And catch a hundred larger fish a week-- Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!"

The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: "'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; Yet if the King commands it, I obey.

But one condition of the strife I pray: The fisherman who brings the least to land Shall do whate'er the other may command."

Loud laughed the King: "A foolish fisher thou!

For I shall win, and rule thee then as now."

Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate And slow, King Martin left the helm of State, While to the novel game with eager zest He all his time and all his powers addressed.

Sure such a sight was never seen before!

In robe and crown the monarch trod the sh.o.r.e; His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, His jewelled reel ran out a silken line.

With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream; Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain.

On Friday, when the week was almost spent, He scanned his empty creel with discontent, Called for a net, and cast it far and wide, And drew--a thousand minnows from the tide!

Then came the angler to conclude the match, And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch-- A hundred salmon, greater than before.

"I win!" he cried: "the King must pay the score."

Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: "Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!"

"Nay, thou hast lost them both," the angler said; And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, And in his place the River-G.o.d was seen.

"Thy vanity has brought thee in my power, And thou must pay the forfeit at this hour: For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule, Eager to win in every trivial strife,-- Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!"

Wrathful, the King the magic sentence heard; He strove to answer, but he only _chirr-r-ed_: His royal robe was changed to wings of blue, His crown a ruby crest,--away he flew!

So every summer day along the stream The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam, And scolds the angler with a mocking scream.

April, 1904.

THE FOOLISH FIR-TREE

_A tale that the poet Ruckert told To German children, in days of old; Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme Like a merry mummer of ancient time, And sent, in its English dress, to please The little folk of the Christmas trees._

A little fir grew in the midst of the wood Contented and happy, as young trees should.

His body was straight and his boughs were clean; And summer and winter the bountiful sheen Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.

But a trouble came into his heart one day, When he saw that the other trees were gay In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: He looked at his needles so stiff and small, And thought that his dress was the poorest of all.

Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, And he said to himself, "It was not very kind To give such an ugly old dress to a tree!

If the fays of the forest would only ask me, I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,-- In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!"

So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad.

When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; For every leaf that his boughs could hold Was made of the brightest beaten gold.

I tell you, children, the tree was proud; He was something above the common crowd; And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say To a pedlar who happened to pa.s.s that way, "Just look at me! Don't you think I am fine?

And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?"

"Oh, yes!" said the man, "and I really guess I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress."

So he picked the golden leaves with care, And left the little tree shivering there.

"Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?"

The fir-tree said, "I forgot that thieves Would be sure to rob me in pa.s.sing by.

If the fairies would give me another try, I'd wish for something that cost much less, And be satisfied with gla.s.s for my dress!"

Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, The fairies granted his wish once more.

When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, The tree was a crystal chandelier; And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, That his branches were covered with jewels bright.

"Aha!" said the tree. "This is something great!"

And he held himself up, very proud and straight; But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.

Then his heart was sad; and he cried, "Alas For my beautiful leaves of shining gla.s.s!

Perhaps I have made another mistake In choosing a dress so easy to break.

If the fairies only would hear me again I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,-- In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!"

By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; But they gave him his wish in a second; and so With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet.

"I knew it!" he cried, "I was sure I could find The sort of a suit that would be to my mind.

There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, And none as attractive as I am, I guess."

But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk.

So he came up close for a nearer view;-- "My salad!" he bleated, "I think so too!

You're the most attractive kind of a tree, And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea."

So he ate them all without saying grace, And walked away with a grin on his face; While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, With never a leaf on a single limb.

Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak-- He was so ashamed that he could not speak.