There came unto an Austrian town, In the good days of @3Reich@1 and @3Ritter,@1 A slim small maid with blood-red gown, And a bowed graybeard with a zitter. Still hand in hand the travellers went, Till in the @3Platz@1 that fronts the steeple He tuned and touched his instrument, She danced before the market people. Oh, 'tis a pleasant seemly noise! Ah, she's so fair who treads the measure! 'Huzza,' cried wives and 'prentice boys, 'For the Herr Graybeard and his treasure.' About her coif a merry mint Of little golden byzants dances, Which sing and ring with gleam and glint Each time she curtseys or advances. And round her pale sweet face her hair Lifts and flows out with billowy motion As strands of the gold seaweed, where The sun shines into th' emerald ocean. There's that within her eyes you meet In wild wood things—they're soft and tragic: But 'tis the witchery in her feet Which out-enchants all other magic! They come and go, they pass and pause, Like swallows' wings or flames a-burning, Till half the folk cry out because Their heads are well-nigh turning. And half the folk laugh low, and he Who erewhile struck, now clasps his brother. The scold grows good, and cheerfully The fretting child obeys its mother. Old scores are paid; grim men forego The cruel quests for which they panted. 'Children, the while she dances so, Do you not guess yourselves enchanted?' One spake—a dark Dominican. Men started as the sharp words stung them;— And lo, an old outlandish man, A dark-eyed Turkish witch among them! Then someone cast a stone;—the deed Was his who spake—we let him claim it: Yet were there none to intercede For wizard worshippers of Mamet! And soon arose a dreadful shout,— ''Tis th' Evil Eye!' and stones came flying. That burgher throng became a rout, And after—someone lay a-dying. So—lift her head upon his knee. At sight of this is wrath not minished? 'Twill not last long: the tragedy In those strange eyes is nearly finished. They grow exceeding dim. 'Tis good The child hath such brave rags to cover With kindred hue the dye of blood Now that the dance and song are over! Once more she stirred, and strove to fold His frail worn hand with faint endeavour: Then o'er the scarlet and the gold Death drew his viewless veil for ever. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE AIM WAS SONG by ROBERT FROST ON EXPLORATION by JAMES GALVIN FABLES: 1ST SER. 5. THE WILD BOAR AND THE RAM by JOHN GAY AULD ROBIN GRAY by ANNE LINDSAY VAQUERO by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER SONNET: 30 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE WILD WEATHER by KATHARINE LEE BATES |