Page:The poems of Edmund Clarence Stedman, 1908.djvu/112

POEMS OF MANHATTAN XII

But all by turns and nothing long;

And Rose, whose needle gains her bread;

And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongue

The bees of Hybla must have fed;

And one—a poet—nowise sage

For self, but gay companion boon

And prophet of the golden age;

He joined us in our pilgrimage

Long since, one early Autumn noon

When, faint with journeying, we sate

Within a wayside hostel-gate

To rest us in Bohemia.

XIII

In rusty garb, but with an air

Of grace, that hunger could not whelm,

He told his wants, and—"Could we spare

Aught of the current of the realm—

A shilling?"—which I gave; and so

Came talk, and Blanche's kindly smile;

Whereat he felt his heart aglow,

And said: "Lo, here is silver! lo,

Mine host hath ale! and it were vile,

If so much coin were spent by me

For bread, when such good company

Is gathered in Bohemia."

XIV

Richer than Kaiser on his throne,

A royal stoup he bade them bring;

And so, with many of mine own,

His shilling vanished on the wing;

And many a skyward-floating strain

He sang, we chorusing the lay 82