The Pied Piper of Hamelin, and Other Poems
Robert Browning




Robert Browning

The Pied Piper of Hamelin, and Other Poems / Every Boy's Library





THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN



A CHILD’S STORY


I

		Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
		By famous Hanover city;
		The river Weser, deep and wide,
		Washes its wall on the southern side;
		A pleasanter spot you never spied;
		But, when begins my ditty,
		Almost five hundred years ago,
		To see the townsfolk suffer so
		From vermin, was a pity.


II

		Rats!
		They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
		And bit the babies in the cradles,
		And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
		And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladles,
		Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
		Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
		And even spoiled the women’s chats
		By drowning their speaking
		With shrieking and squeaking
		In fifty different sharps and flats.


III

		At last the people in a body
		To the Town Hall came flocking:
		“’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy;
		And as for our Corporation – shocking
		To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
		For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
		What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
		You hope, because you’re old and obese,
		To find in the furry civic robe ease?
		Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
		To find the remedy we’re lacking,
		Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!”
		At this the Mayor and Corporation
		Quaked with a mighty consternation.


IV

		An hour they sat in council;
		At length the Mayor broke silence:
		“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell,
		I wish I were a mile hence!
		It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain —
		I’m sure my poor head aches again,
		I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain.
		Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!”
		Just as he said this, what should hap
		At the chamber-door but a gentle tap?
		“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?”
		(With the Corporation as he sat,
		Looking little though wondrous fat;
		Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
		Than a too-long-opened oyster,
		Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
		For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
		“Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
		Anything like the sound of a rat
		Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!”


V

		“Come in!” – the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
		And in did come the strangest figure!
		His queer long coat from heel to head
		Was half of yellow and half of red,
		And he himself was tall and thin,
		With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
		And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
		No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
		But lips where smiles went out and in;
		There was no guessing his kith and kin:
		And nobody could enough admire
		The tall man and his quaint attire.
		Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire,
		Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
		Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!”


VI

		He advanced to the council-table:
		And, “Please your honours,” said he, “I’m able,
		By means of a secret charm, to draw
		All creatures living beneath the sun,
		That creep or swim or fly or run,
		After me so as you never saw!
		And I chiefly use my charm
		On creatures that do people harm,
		The mole and toad and newt and viper;
		And people call me the Pied Piper.”
		(And here they noticed round his neck
		A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
		To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
		And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
		And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
		As if impatient to be playing
		Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
		Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
		“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,
		In Tartary I freed the Cham,
		Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;
		I eased in Asia the Nizam
		Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats:
		And as for what your brain bewilders,
		If I can rid your town of rats
		Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
		“One? fifty thousand!” – was the exclamation
		Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.


VII

		Into the street the Piper stept,
		Smiling first a little smile,
		As if he knew what magic slept
		In his quiet pipe the while;
		Then, like a musical adept,
		To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
		And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
		Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
		And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
		You heard as if an army muttered;
		And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
		And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
		And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
		Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats
		Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats
		Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
		Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
		Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
		Families by tens and dozens,
		Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —
		Followed the Piper for their lives.
		From street to street he piped advancing,
		And step for step they followed dancing,
		Until they came to the river Weser,
		Wherein all plunged and perished!
		– Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar,
		Swam across and lived to carry
		(As he, the manuscript he cherished)
		To Rat-land home his commentary:
		Which was, “At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
		I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
		And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
		Into a cider-press’s gripe:
		And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
		And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
		And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
		And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
		And it seemed as if a voice
		(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
		Is breathed) called out, ‘Oh, rats, rejoice!
		The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
		So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
		Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’
		And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
		All ready staved, like a great sun shone
		Glorious scarce an inch before me,
		Just as methought it said, ‘Come, bore me!’
		– I found the Weser rolling o’er me.”


VIII

		You should have heard the Hamelin people
		Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
		“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles,
		Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
		Consult with carpenters and builders,
		And leave in our town not even a trace
		Of the rats!” – when suddenly, up the face
		Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
		With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”


IX

		A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
		So did the Corporation, too.
		For council dinners made rare havoc
		With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
		And half the money would replenish
		Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.
		To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
		With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
		“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
		“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
		We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
		And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
		So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
		From the duty of giving you something for drink,
		And a matter of money to put in your poke;
		But as for the guilders, what we spoke
		Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
		Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
		A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!”


X

		The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
		“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside!
		I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
		Bagdat, and accept the prime
		Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
		For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
		Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:
		With him I proved no bargain-driver,
		With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
		And folks who put me in a passion
		May find me pipe after another fashion.”


XI

		“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I brook
		Being worse treated than a Cook?
		Insulted by a lazy ribald
		With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
		You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
		Blow your pipe there till you burst!”


XII

		Once more he stept into the street,
		And to his lips again
		Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
		And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
		Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
		Never gave the enraptured air)
		There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
		Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;
		Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
		Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
		And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,
		Out came the children running.
		All the little boys and girls,
		With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
		And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
		Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
		The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.


XIII

		The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
		As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
		Unable to move a step, or cry
		To the children merrily skipping by,
		– Could only follow with the eye
		That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
		But how the Mayor was on the rack,
		And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat,
		As the Piper turned from the High Street
		To where the Weser rolled its waters
		Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
		However, he turned from South to West,
		And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
		And after him the children pressed;
		Great was the joy in every breast.
		“He never can cross that mighty top!
		He’s forced to let the piping drop,
		And we shall see our children stop!”
		When, lo, as they reached the mountainside,
		A wondrous portal opened wide,
		As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
		And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
		And when all were in to the very last,
		The door in the mountainside shut fast.
		Did I say, all? No! One was lame,
		And could not dance the whole of the way;
		And in after years, if you would blame
		His sadness, he was used to say, —
		“It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!
		I can’t forget that I’m bereft
		Of all the pleasant sights they see,
		Which the Piper also promised me.
		For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
		Joining the town and just at hand,
		Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew
		And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
		And everything was strange and new;
		The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
		And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
		And honey-bees had lost their stings,
		And horses were born with eagles’ wings:
		And just as I became assured
		My lame foot would be speedily cured,
		The music stopped and I stood still,
		And found myself outside the hill,
		Left alone against my will,
		To go now limping as before,
		And never hear of that country more!”


XIV

		Alas, alas for Hamelin!
		There came into many a burgher’s pate
		A text which says that heaven’s gate
		Opes to the rich at as easy rate
		As the needle’s eye takes a camel in!
		The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
		To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,
		Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
		Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
		If he’d only return the way he went,
		And bring the children behind him.
		But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
		And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
		They made a decree that lawyers never
		Should think their records dated duly
		If, after the day of the month and year,
		These words did not as well appear,
		“And so long after what happened here
		On the Twenty-second of July,
		Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:”
		And the better in memory to fix
		The place of the children’s last retreat,
		They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street —
		Where any one playing on pipe or tabour
		Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
		Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
		To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
		But opposite the place of the cavern
		They wrote the story on a column,
		And on the great church-window painted
		The same, to make the world acquainted
		How their children were stolen away,
		And there it stands to this very day.
		And I must not omit to say
		That in Transylvania there’s a tribe
		Of alien people who ascribe
		The outlandish ways and dress
		On which their neighbours lay such stress,
		To their fathers and mothers having risen
		Out of some subterraneous prison
		Into which they were trepanned
		Long time ago in a mighty band
		Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
		But how or why, they don’t understand.


XV

		So, Willy, let me and you be wipers
		Of scores out with all men – especially pipers!
		And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice,
		If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise!




HERVÉ RIEL



I

		On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
		Did the English fight the French, – woe to France!
		And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue,
		Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
		Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance,
		With the English fleet in view.


II

		’Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
		First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
		Close on him fled, great and small,
		Twenty-two good ships in all;
		And they signalled to the place
		“Help the winners of a race!
		Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick – or, quicker still,
		Here’s the English can and will!”


III

		Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
		“Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?” laughed they:
		“Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,
		Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns
		Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
		Trust to enter where ’tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
		And with flow at full beside?
		Now, ’tis slackest ebb of tide.
		Reach the mooring? Rather say,
		While rock stands or water runs,
		Not a ship will leave the bay!”


IV

		Then was called a council straight.
		Brief and bitter the debate:
		“Here’s the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
		All that’s left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
		For a prize to Plymouth Sound?
		Better run the ships aground!”
		(Ended Damfreville his speech.)
		“Not a minute more to wait!
		Let the Captains all and each
		Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
		France must undergo her fate.


V

		“Give the word!” But no such word
		Was ever spoke or heard;
		For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these
		– A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate – first, second, third?
		No such man of mark, and meet
		With his betters to compete!
		But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet,
		A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.


VI

		And “What mockery or malice have we here?” cries Hervé Riel:
		“Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?
		Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
		On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell
		’Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?
		Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying’s for?
		Morn and eve, night and day,
		Have I piloted your bay,
		Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
		Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
		Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there’s a way!
		Only let me lead the line,
		Have the biggest ship to steer,
		Get this Formidable clear,
		Make the others follow mine,
		And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
		Right to Solidor past Grève,
		And there lay them safe and sound;
		And if one ship misbehave,
		– Keel so much as grate the ground,
		Why, I’ve nothing but my life, – here’s my head!” cries Hervé Riel.


VII

		Not a minute more to wait.
		“Steer us in, then, small and great!
		Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!” cried its chief.
		Captains, give the sailor place!
		He is Admiral, in brief.
		Still the north wind, by God’s grace!
		See the noble fellow’s face
		As the big ship, with a bound,
		Clears the entry like a hound,
		Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea’s profound!
		See, safe through shoal and rock,
		How they follow in a flock,
		Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
		Not a spar that comes to grief!
		The peril, see, is past,
		All are harboured to the last,
		And just as Hervé Riel hollas “Anchor!” – sure as fate,
		Up the English come – too late!


VIII

		So, the storm subsides to calm:
		They see the green trees wave
		On the heights o’erlooking Grève.
		Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
		“Just our rapture to enhance,
		Let the English rake the bay,
		Gnash their teeth and glare askance
		As they cannonade away!
		’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!”
		How hope succeeds despair on each Captain’s countenance!
		Out burst all with one accord,
		“This is Paradise for Hell!
		Let France, let France’s King
		Thank the man that did the thing!”
		What a shout, and all one word,
		“Hervé Riel!”
		As he stepped in front once more,
		Not a symptom of surprise
		In the frank blue Breton eyes,
		Just the same man as before.


IX

		Then said Damfreville, “My friend,
		I must speak out at the end,
		Though I find the speaking hard.
		Praise is deeper than the lips:
		You have saved the King his ships,
		You must name your own reward.
		’Faith, our sun was near eclipse!
		Demand whate’er you will,
		France remains your debtor still.
		Ask to heart’s content and have! or my name’s not Damfreville.”


X

		Then a beam of fun outbroke
		On the bearded mouth that spoke,
		As the honest heart laughed through
		Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
		“Since I needs must say my say,
		Since on board the duty’s done,
		And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? —
		Since ’tis ask and have, I may —
		Since the others go ashore —
		Come! A good whole holiday!
		Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!”
		That he asked and that he got, – nothing more.


XI

		Name and deed alike are lost:
		Not a pillar nor a post
		In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
		Not a head in white and black
		On a single fishing-smack,
		In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
		All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
		Go to Paris: rank on rank
		Search the heroes flung pell-mell
		On the Louvre, face and flank!
		You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.
		So, for better and for worse,
		Hervé Riel, accept my verse!
		In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more
		Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!




CAVALIER TUNES



I. MARCHING ALONG

		Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,
		Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:
		And, pressing a troop unable to stoop
		And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
		Marched them along, fifty-score strong,
		Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

		God for King Charles! Pym and such carles
		To the Devil that prompts ’em their treasonous parles!
		Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
		Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup
		Till you’re —

		


Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

		Hampden to hell, and his obsequies’ knell.
		Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!
		England, good cheer! Rupert is near!
		Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,

		


Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

		Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls
		To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
		Hold by the right, you double your might;
		So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,

		


March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!


II. GIVE A ROUSE

		King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?
		King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?
		Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,




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