A Tale
(_Epilogue
to
"The
Two
Poets
of
Croisic."_)
What
a
pretty
tale
you
told
me
Once
upon
a
time
--Said
you
found
it
somewhere
(scold
me!)
Was
it
prose
or
was
it
rhyme,
Greek
or
Latin?
Greek,
you
said,
While
your
shoulder
propped
my
head.
Anyhow
there's
no
forgetting
This
much
if
no
more,
That
a
poet
(pray,
no
petting!)
Yes,
a
bard,
sir,
famed
of
yore,
Went
where
suchlike
used
to
go,
Singing
for
a
prize,
you
know.
Well,
he
had
to
sing,
nor
merely
Sing
but
play
the
lyre;
Playing
was
important
clearly
Quite
as
singing:
I
desire,
Sir,
you
keep
the
fact
in
mind
For
a
purpose
that's
behind.
There
stood
he,
while
deep
attention
Held
the
judges
round,
--Judges
able,
I
should
mention,
To
detect
the
slightest
sound
Sung
or
played
amiss:
such
ears
Had
old
judges,
it
appears!
None
the
less
he
sang
out
boldly,
Played
in
time
and
tune,
Till
the
judges,
weighing
coldly
Each
note's
worth,
seemed,
late
or
soon,
Sure
to
smile
"In
vain
one
tries
Picking
faults
out:
take
the
prize!"
When,
a
mischief!
Were
they
seven
Strings
the
lyre
possessed?
Oh,
and
afterwards
eleven,
Thank
you!
Well,
sir,--who
had
guessed
Such
ill
luck
in
store?--it
happed
One
of
those
same
seven
strings
snapped.
All
was
lost,
then!
No!
a
cricket
(What
"cicada"?
Pooh!)
--Some
mad
thing
that
left
its
thicket
For
mere
love
of
music--flew
With
its
little
heart
on
fire,
Lighted
on
the
crippled
lyre.
So
that
when
(Ah
joy!)
our
singer
For
his
truant
string
Feels
with
disconcerted
finger,
What
does
cricket
else
but
fling
Fiery
heart
forth,
sound
the
note
Wanted
by
the
throbbing
throat?
Ay
and,
ever
to
the
ending,
Cricket
chirps
at
need,
Executes
the
hand's
intending,
Promptly,
perfectly,--indeed
Saves
the
singer
from
defeat
With
her
chirrup
low
and
sweet.
Till,
at
ending,
all
the
judges
Cry
with
one
assent
"Take
the
prize--a
prize
who
grudges
Such
a
voice
and
instrument?
Why,
we
took
your
lyre
for
harp,
So
it
shrilled
us
forth
F
sharp!"
Did
the
conqueror
spurn
the
creature
Once
its
service
done?
That's
no
such
uncommon
feature
In
the
case
when
Music's
son
Finds
his
Lotte's
power
too
spent
For
aiding
soul
development.
No!
This
other,
on
returning
Homeward,
prize
in
hand,
Satisfied
his
bosom's
yearning:
(Sir,
I
hope
you
understand!)
--Said
"Some
record
there
must
be
Of
this
cricket's
help
to
me!"
So,
he
made
himself
a
statue:
Marble
stood,
life
size;
On
the
lyre,
he
pointed
at
you,
Perched
his
partner
in
the
prize;
Never
more
apart
you
found
Her,
he
throned,
from
him,
she
crowned.
That's
the
tale:
its
application?
Somebody
I
know
Hopes
one
day
for
reputation
Thro'
his
poetry
that's--Oh,
All
so
learned
and
so
wise
And
deserving
of
a
prize!
If
he
gains
one,
will
some
ticket
When
his
statue's
built,
Tell
the
gazer
"'Twas
a
cricket
Helped
my
crippled
lyre,
whose
lilt
Sweet
and
low,
when
strength
usurped
Softness'
place
i'
the
scale,
she
chirped?
"For
as
victory
was
nighest,
While
I
sang
and
played,--
With
my
lyre
at
lowest,
highest,
Right
alike,--one
string
that
made
'Love'
sound
soft
was
snapt
in
twain
Never
to
be
heard
again,--
"Had
not
a
kind
cricket
fluttered,
Perched
upon
the
place
Vacant
left,
and
duly
uttered
'Love,
Love,
Love,'
whene'er
the
bass
Asked
the
treble
to
atone
For
its
somewhat
sombre
drone."
But
you
don't
know
music!
Wherefore
Keep
on
casting
pearls
To
a--poet?
All
I
care
for
Is--to
tell
him
that
a
girl's
"Love"
comes
aptly
in
when
gruff
Grows
his
singing,
(There,
enough!)
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.