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- Herausgeber: Delphi Publishing Ltd
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Serie: Delphi Poets Series
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Hungary’s national bard, Sándor Petőfi was a pioneering revolutionary, who symbolised his homeland’s desire for freedom. He played a leading role in the literary life of the period preceding the outbreak of the Hungarian Revolution of 1848. Imbued with unique vigour, Petőfi’s verse is characterised by realism, humour and descriptive power. He introduced a direct, unpretentious style and a clear, unornamented construction adapted from local folk songs. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Petőfi’s collected poetical works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Petőfi’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Sándor Petőfi
* Translations by William N. Loew, 1912
* All the major poems, including ‘The Apostle’
* Excellent formatting of the poetry
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Petofi’s complete poetry in the original Hungarian (Athenaeum text)
* Features two biographies — including Loew’s important memoir
CONTENTS:
The Life and Poetry of Sándor Petőfi
Brief Introduction: Sándor Petőfi by William N. Loew
Collected Works of Sándor Petőfi
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Original Hungarian Texts
The Complete Poems of Sándor Petőfi
The Biographies
Alexander Petőfi (1899) by William Noah Loew
Brief Biography of Alexander Petŏfi (1911) by Robert Nisbet Bain
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Sándor Petőfi
(1823-1849)
Contents
The Life and Poetry of Sándor Petőfi
Brief Introduction: Sándor Petőfi by William N. Loew
Collected Works of Sándor Petőfi
The Poems
List of Poems in Chronological Order
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order
The Original Hungarian Texts
The Complete Poems of Sándor Petőfi
The Biographies
Alexander Petőfi (1899) by William Noah Loew
Brief Biography of Alexander Petŏfi (1911) by Robert Nisbet Bain
The Delphi Classics Catalogue
© Delphi Classics 2024
Version 1
Browse the entire series…
Sándor Petőfi
By Delphi Classics, 2024
COPYRIGHT
Sándor Petofi - Delphi Poets Series
First published in the United Kingdom in 2024 by Delphi Classics.
© Delphi Classics, 2024.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.
ISBN: 978 1 80170 175 4
Delphi Classics
is an imprint of
Delphi Publishing Ltd
Hastings, East Sussex
United Kingdom
Contact: [email protected]
www.delphiclassics.com
NOTE
When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.
The Life and Poetry of Sándor Petőfi
Kiskőrös, a town in Bács-Kiskun, situated between the Danube and Tisza rivers — Sándor Petőfi, the national poet of Hungary, was born here on New Year’s Day 1823.
Petőfi’s birthplace
Brief Introduction: Sándor Petőfi by William N. Loew
Alexander P-tőfi is Hungary’s greatest lyric poet and one of the truly great singers of sweet song of the civilized world. Grimm the great German literary essayist, names Petőfi as one of the five greatest poets of the world.
Slowly, but surely his fame grows. If Petőfi had a translator of his lyrics into English as competent as Shakespeare had to translate his dramas into the languages of the European continent, then Petőfi would be universally recognized as the great poet of all of the world’s poetical literature.
Many are called — few are Godborn sons of song and only a true poet can translate well.
In the preface to a former volume of mine I earnestly protested against being charged with the conceit of considering myself a poet.
I confessed then and I repeat it here, that I do not claim that my heart and soul are warmed by the holy flame lit by the Muses: — no, only my undying love for my native country, my boundless admiration for Petőfi inspire me to do some “missionary” work in introducing him to Anglo-American readers.
For nearly half a century I have been trying to make him and his poetical genius known here in the United States.
In the early 70’s I wrote for Professor Rasmus Anderson of the University of Wisconsin a story of the life of Petőfi and sent him a dozen or more of my earliest Petőfi translations. He was to use my contribution as a preface to his translation of Petőfi’s novel “The Hangman’s Rope”. A few years later I translated a number of Magyar Folk Songs, among them some of Petőfi’s, for Francis Korbay, the foremost resident-musician of Magyar birth then living in New York, to be used by him in the transcriptions of Magyar Folk Songs he was then publishing. I did similar work, later on, for our dear old Edward Reményi and for Maximilian Vogrich.
Petőfi’s gloriously great poem “One thought torments me” — appeared for the first time in the “Critic”, just launched by the late Richard Watson Gilder, one of America’s great poets.
In 1881 I published my “Gems from Petőfi etc.” — and in 1883 I lectured before a body of Hungarians, at the city of Cleveland, on “Alexander Petőfi”. The committee having the lecture in charge published it and devoted the proceeds of the sale to a charitable object. Even to-day, after twenty-nine years, there still rings in my ear the cheer caused by a passage in that lecture of mine which enthused my hearers: “Every smile, every tear of his was a poem”.
Then I published a volume of “Magyar Songs” and later a volume of “Magyar Poetry”, two anthologies of Magyar lyrics, both containing a number of my Petőfi translations.
No one is more thoroughly aware than I am of the immense distance between the Magyar Petőfi and the English Petőfi as the latter is made known to the reader by my translations. However, I claim one merit. My translations may not be classic reproductions, may not be poetic creations showing Petőfi’s true genius, however, I think, that I succeeded in producing — con amore — faithful photographs.
English students of Magyar literature will in the course of time do better and at some future day all of the world shall recognize the truth of John H. Ingram’s opinion: “Petőfi is the world’s greatest lyric poet, he who, to my mind is more the representative spirit and soul of Hungary than any man has yet been of that country.”
Until, however, Petőfi has the good fortune to find a Bayard Taylor or a H. W. Longfellow to make him feel at home in Anglo-American literature, the undersigned thought best to do something to counter effect the possible opinion of the English literary world of Petőfi’s worth and value as a poet, if based solely on the alleged translations of Sir John Bowring — .
Fortunately there are other Petőfi translators. E. D. Butler, Henry Phillipps Jr. (an American) and Frederick Walter Fuller have done magnificent work, but all the three put together have given only — I think — a score or so of Petőfi’s songs to England and America.
Petőfi’s recognition by England and America as the world’s great lyric poet is still to come. He had German, French and Italian translators who endeared him to their respective countries and enriched their own literatures by giving them a Petőfi of their own.
If my present work adds but a single leaflet to the wreath of immortality of his high fame “which nothing can cover but heaven”, then indeed I am a proud and happy man.
* * *
“The Apostle” is a dream of Petőfi’s, “a series of boldly drawn pictures,” an epic poem of democratic convictions. Petőfi’s conception of the world might be summed up thus: “‘Mankind is continually developing. A grape is a small thing, yet it requires a whole summer to ripen it. How many thousands of sunrays have touched a single berry. How many millions may the world need! The rays which ripen the world are the souls of men. Every great soul is such a ray—”
“Guide John” is the most truly Magyar fabulous fairy story ever told.
“Simple Steve” is —— Petőfi, the light-hearted, easy going, good-natured, loveable and loving youth, full of animal spirit, with a heart of gold.
These three epics are not “the great epics” of Magyar literature, but they are perfect gems of Petőfian view of life, humor, pathos.
The “Cypress ‘Leaves from dear Ethel’s Grave” are heartrending outbursts of a grief at the loss of one sweetheart, soon exchanged for another, who then inspired him to sing other rhapsodies of love...
The hundred odd “selected lyrics” added to these aforenamed translations, make a fairly representative volume of an English Petőfi.
* * *
In December 1910 I lectured before a Magyar Society, “The First Hungarian Literary Society of New York City”, an ambitious body of young Magyar-Americans. I spoke in memory of Coloman Mikszâth, Hungary’s great humorous writer, the Mark Twain of my native land.
In the course of my remarks I said: “Mikszâth was to Francis Deâk’s Hungary what Petőfi had been to the Hungary of Kossuth”; and speaking then of Petőfi, I suggested the propriety of a movement to be undertaken by them, — the members of the Hungarian Society I was then addressing — to erect here, in New York City, a statue in honor of Alexander Petőfi, the great bard of love and liberty.
The suggestion was enthusiastically acted upon. A committee was appointed entrusted with the carrying out the idea. This volume is my contribution to that monument. The “Hungarian Literary Society of New York” accepted my contribution and undertook the publication of the volume, the net proceeds of the sale thereof going to the “Monument-Fund”.
As an interesting historical fact I must be allowed to mention here, that Alexander Petőfi’s original “Cypress Leaves From the Grave of Dear Ethel” was first published by a patriotic society, the “Nemzeti Casino”, induced to do so at the suggestion of Michael Vorosmarty, whose opinion as to Petőfi’s poetical genius was more readily accepted by the magnates of the Magyar Casino, than by the Magyar publishers of Pest, who were not willing to print the poems of a then unknown author.
The net proceeds of the sale of the second edition of the “Cypress Leaves” Petőfi dedicated to a charitable object.
* * *
Let me hope, that by the time the literary world celebrates the centenary of Petőfi’s birthday, the Magyar Societies of New York and if the United States, assisted by the lovers of song of all other races, will gather around that statue, then already erected, to place wreaths of laurel upon the pedestal of his monument, and that in the hearts of the thousands then and there assembled will re-echo Petőfi’s famous song:
“Freedom and loveAre dear to me;My life I giveSweet love for theeYet love I giveFor liberty!”
New York, March 15th, 1912.
WM. N. LOEW.
The poet’s parents painted by Petrich Soma Orlay. His father, István Petrovics, was a village butcher, innkeeper and second-generation Serb. His mother, Mária Hrúz, was a servant and laundress before her marriage. She was of Slovak descent and spoke Hungarian with an accent.
Júlia Szendrey, Petőfi’s wife
Petőfi’s daguerreotype, 1844
The Polish Liberal General Józef Bem, c. 1844 — Petőfi joined the Hungarian Revolutionary Army and fought under General Bem in the Transylvanian army. The army was initially successful against Habsburg troops, but after Tsar Nicholas I of Russia intervened to support the Habsburgs, it was defeated.
Petőfi by Soma Orlai Petrich, Hungarian National Museum, 1840
Collected Works of Sándor Petőfi
Translated by William N. Loew, 1912
CONTENTS
THE APOSTLE.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
CHILDE JOHN.
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
SIMPLE STEVE.
CYPRESS LEAVES FROM THE GRAVE OF DEAR ETHEL.
I’LL TELL WHAT UNTIL NOW...
WHAT WOULD I NOT HAVE DONE...
WHERE ART...
AH! HOW SADLY
CLOSE THAT COFFIN...
IF WHILE ALIVE...
I AM HERE...
UP IN THE ZENITH...
I’LL NOT DISTURB THY PEACE...
FOR TWO LONG DAYS...
WHY DOST THOU LOOK INTO MY ROOM?
WHY MOCKEST NATURE...?
WHY SHOULD IT BE ODD?
WHERE ART THOU...
SHE, THE DARLING LITTLE GIRL...
I STOOD BESIDE HER GRAVE...
IT IS NOT TRUE...
THOU WERT...
IF BUT MY FRIENDS WOULD NOT...
I HAVE WANDERED FAR AWAY.
COME SPRING, COME...
TIME HEALS ALL WOUNDS...
A TINGE OF BLUE...
DID I COMPLAIN?
HOW SAD IS LIFE FOR ME...
WHEN SORELY SUFFERING...
THE SNOW, THE FUNERAL PALL...
IF IN HER LIFE...
OUR HOARY EARTH...
WITHIN THIS ROOM...
MY MOTHER, MY MOTHER...
THE CLOCK STRUCK TWELVE...
DO I IN VAIN...
MYSTERIOUS, ENCHANTING...
DISCARDED LUTE...
SELECTED LYRICS
AT HOME.
ON THE DANUBE.
A FUNNY STORY.
IN THE FOREST.
WHAT USE?
FROM AFAR.
LONGING FOR DEATH.
WOLF ADVENTURE.
I.
LIVING DEATH.
THE LAST CHARITY.
INTO THE KITCHEN DOOR I STROLLED.
LOVE IS, LOVE IS A DARK PIT
YOU CANNOT BID THE FLOWER.
AT THE CROSS-ROAD...
MY LITTLE FLUTE.
I’D LIKE TO SAY...
AT THE FUNERAL.
MOURNFUL IS THE DAY.
VOICES FROM EGER.
THE MOONRAYS LAVE...
THE BEST LAID PLANS...
THROUGH THE VILLAGE.
MY GRAVE.
ON AN ASS THE SHEPHERD RIDES.
THE ALFÔLD.
THE EVENING.
BRIGHT STAR...
HAPPY NIGHT.
HOW VAST THIS WORLD!
TWO BROTHERS.
ITS RAINING.
DRUNK FOR THE COUNTRY’S SAKE.
THE LEAF IS FALLING.
THE FOREST HOME.
THE GOOD OLD LANDLORD.
THE MAGYAR NOBLE.
FAIR MAIDEN OF A VILLAGE FAIR.
BARGAIN.
MY LOVE.
STREAMLET AND STREAM.
MY FATHERLAND.
OH, JUDGE ME NOT.
IF GOD...
I’D BE A TREE...
THE RUINS OF THE INN.
MY DREAMS.
CURSE AND BLESSING.
SWEET JOY.
THE MANIAC.
I DO NOT WEEP...
WHAT IS THE END OF MAN?
WHAT IS GLORY?
MAJESTIC NIGHT.
ARE THEY LOVERS?...
MUTABILITY.
WE WERE IN THE GARDEN.
POETIC FANCY’T WAS.
I DREAM OF GORY DAYS.
BRIGHT-BLUE THE NIGHT.
ONE THOUGHT TORMENTS ME.
THE ROSEBUSH TREMBLES.
MY SONGS.
THE IMPRISONED LION.
IF BORN A MAN, THEN BE A MAN.
SONG OF THE DOGS AND WOLVES.
I AM A MAGYAR.
A HOLY GRAVE.
THE WIND.
THE FLOWERS.
RAGGED HEROES.
FIRE.
MY JULIA IS MINE, AT LAST.
THOU ART MINE.
HOW BEAUTEOUS IS THE WORLD.
AT THE END OF THE YEAR.
AT THE HAMLET’S OUTSKIRTS.
TWILIGHT.
AUNT SARAH.
HOMER AND OSSIAN.
THE MOON’S ELEGY.
A ROSEBUSH ON THE HILLSIDE GROWS.
AT THE END OF SEPTEMBER.
MASTER PATÔ.
ON A RAILROAD.
MY WIFE IS DEAD.
MY MOTHER’S HEN.
NATIONAL SONG.
MY WIFE AND MY SWORD.
THE FALLEN STATUE.
THE GOD OF THE MAGYARS.
FAREWELL.
THE AUTUMN HAS COME...
HERE IS MY ARROW.
WHO WOULD BELIEVE?
WAR SONG.
IN MY NATIVE LAND.
THE DREAM.
I PARTED FROM THE LITTLE GIRL...
THE POET’S MONOLOGUE.
THE BEGGAR’S GRAVE.
THE STORK.
THE APOSTLE.
I.
The town is dark. The night o’er it is spread,In other climes to shine the moon has fled,And every star on highHas closed his golden eye;Black as the borrowed conscience is from wearSo black the aspect that the world does bear.
One tiny little lightIs glimmering on yon height;And like a sick man’s glaring eyes,Or like a dying hope that flies,That flickering light to flare up tries.The midnight oil it is, in garret-room.Who is it watches at that lamp’s pale gloom?Who can it be? You wish to know?Two famous brothers they, — Virtue and Woe.So great the misery, it has hardly spaceTo stir in that lone, God-forsaken place.
Just like a swallow’s nest, it is so small,The very squalor of it doth apall.The four walls are all gruesome and all bare,That is to say, had not the moldy airAdorned them all o’er with spot and stain.And had from leaky roof the pouring rainNot painted them with streaks, that would be true,The rain here drewOf darkest hueA thick line, whichLooks like in richMen’s homes the bell-rope near the door.The air is foul, the walls outpourA tainted, putrid breath.It might cause e’en the deathOf rich men’s pets, the dogs, if theyIn kennels like this had to stay.
A table and a bed-stead of cheap stuff,Which for a rag-fair wouldn’t be good enough,Upon the bed, a bag filled up with straw,Two broken chairs you near the table saw,Then a moth-eaten trunk; — and that was allYou that room’s complete furnishing, could call.
Who lives in here? The lamp’s faint lightCopes with the darkness of the night.Obscured, dim is the window-pane,As are dream-pictures, one in vainIn memory tries to retain.
Deceives the lamp’s faint light the eye?Are those whom here we can espyMade by the light so ghastly, van,Or are they ghosts we look upon?The answer is a moan and sigh.
Upon the trunk we first beholdA mother, whose thin arms enfoldHer babe. Poor, miserable child!The mother’s barren breasts beguiledIts craving hunger and it criesAnd weakly whines, in vain it triesSweet milk to suck from hollow breast.The mother’s very looks attestHer painful thoughts. As melting snowDrops from the roof to street below:As freely flows her burning tearUpon her crying baby dear.Or can it be that she is notThinking at all? Her tears flow, butAs if it were a thing of course,As is the spring’s flow from its source?Her older child, thank God’s asleep, — Or seems to be; well, it does not weep,Upon the bed, close to the wall,Spread over him’s a ragged shawl.The straw peeps out from ‘neath the spread.Sleep, little boy! Of golden threadMay angels weave a dream most sweet:Dream that a slice of bread you eat!
A man, still young, the father he,Sits at the table in deep gloom.The cloud, we on his forehead see.Is it that which gives to the roomThis aspect of a living tomb?That forehead seems an open page.Telling of wars he had to wageWith all the ills of cruel fate.That forehead plainly shows the weightOf care and woe which were his share.Beneath that dark forehead, a pairOf lustrous eyes brilliantly shine,Like beauteous stars which illumineThe heavenly dome. Bold, fearless eyes,Which strength and force do signalise.It seemed as if his thoughtSome mighty distance sought,Had risen high,Up to the skyWhere eagles fly.
II.
Through all the world the deepest silence reigns,Within the room death’s deepest calm obtains.Without, the, autumn wind the air has stirred,Within, the mother’s woeful sigh is heard.The little boy, arising in the bed,Leans to the wall his weary, aching head;With tearful voice, as came it from the grave,Begins now for something to eat to crave.“I am so hungry, father dear, oh, please,Give me some bread my hunger to appease.I tried to sleep; believe me, I have triedWith sleep my hungry state from you to hide.Oh! give me please, or show me but a piece,E’en the sight of bread might my hunger ease.”“Wait till to-morrow morn, my darling boy,Thou shalt a piece of white bread then enjoy,White bread, baked with the sweet milk of the cow.”“I rather have a crust of black bread now,Than, father dear, to-morrow any kind.That I am dead, to-morrow, you might find.I’m dying now; to-morrow’s far away,You’ve said “to-morrow” now many a day,’Tis always but to-day, and hungry I.Oh, tell me father dear, when once we die,Still hungry, we when in the grave we lie?”“No, darling child, oh no!The dead no hunger know.”“Then, father dear, it is best dead to be,Then father, find a white coffin for me.Let it be white as is my mother’s face,And carry me to that good resting placeWhere the happy dead,Hunger not for bread.”
Who says that children are but innocent?Where is the dagger, where the sword, that sentTo human heart a wound so sore,And pierced it to its very core,As did to the poor father’s heartThe son’s complaint? No stabbing dartCould make it bleed so free, as didThat speech. Oh! how he tried to bidHis heart to keep still, but in vain!He can’t his ardent tears retain.So burning they, that with a startHe puts his hand up to his face.To see, is it blood of his heartThat spurted there. Not in the daysOf bitter woe did he complain.But now, resentment which had lainDormant for years, breaks forth: Oh, God!Why did’st thou mould me from the clod,Why not have left me in a stateOf nothingness? Why did’st createThis body and this soul, which longTo be but dust again? How wrongThat I, according to Thy plan,Have offspring, but being a manCannot, as can the Pelican,My children with my heart’s-blood feed?I dare not in this strain proceed,I bow, my God, it is Thy deed!We men are blind, Thy plans divineMan cannot grasp, and Thy designWe must not judge. Into this seaOf life to put me hath pleased Thee,And, as a magnet, to controlMy life, thou gavest me a soul.I bow and I obey! — Here, boy,Here is a slice of bread. — EnjoyIt now; it is the last; God knowsWhat wilt thou then to-morrow eat.”And eagerly the boy aroseAnd ate that slice of bread so sweet.What did he care that it was dry?As shines at night the flitting fireflySo shone with bliss the boy’s bright eye.When with his feast the boy was throughHe promptly went to sleep anew;Sleep came with ease, as comes the mistOver the vale the dawn hath kissed.And lying down in his wont place,He sleeps and dreams, a smile his faceLights up. What dream might he have had?Of death? or did he dream of bread?The mother had gone on to weep,Until she also fell asleepShe laid down first the baby too,Her arm around her children threw...And sleeps and dreams her woes subdue.
The husband from his seat arose,On tiptoes to the bed he goes,With folded arms he casts his eyeO’er those he loves. Then with a sighHe says: — as were he thinking loud,“At last, my dears, nature allowedSweet, soothing sleep to come to you.Ah! dream-life has a rosy hue.Asleep you are freed of the weightYou had to bear by curse of fate.Good God! That sleep should love them moreThan I! Sleep had for them in storeSweet happiness, which I could notSecure to them as their life’s lot.But let it pass, — they’re happy now,Peace, blissful peace is on each brow,It is a beauteous sight,Beloved ones, good night!”
And then he kissed the foreheads of the three,They are his home-life’s holy Trinity.His hands he raiseth his dear ones to bless(Ah! that his hands naught else to give possess!He then returns to his abandoned seat.Once more he casts his eye over his sweetGroup on the bed, — such tender, loving gazeThat, though asleep, it yet to them conveysDreams where an angel with fair roses plays.And then he looked into the gloomy night.His look is bold: it seemed as with the brightLook he had tried the night to fill with light.
III.
Where might have roamed the man’s wakeful soul?What path to find had been the thinker’s goal?
His mind is soaring in the high, Where in delusive dreams to fly The demigods and lunatics try.
Just like a bird breaks from her shell,On wings arises high in air:So did he cast off and dispel His woeful sorrow and his care.The mortal man in him was dead,The citizen in him insteadHad come to life.
Whose heart for wife And children sweetWith love repleteHad been a few moments ago,Hath now a heart with love aglowFor all humanity; who heldThe three dear ones that with him dwelled In his loving embrace, Loves now the human race.His soul’s wings soared far up on high,Whence like a dot upon an “i.”Earth seemed to be. When in the vastImmensity his soul flew past,The stars’ light flickered as when breathA candle’s light encountereth.
It flew and flew;A million miles and more afarIs in the sky star from the star, Yet through the blueVast space it flew, and as the horseWhich through a forest takes its courseLeaveth behind the countless trees,So did his soul pass by with easeAnd leave behind the countless stars.
It meets naught which its bold flight bars.And when a myriad stars it passedAnd left behind, and When at lastIt reached, — was it the world’s end?No! When it was given to him to standIn the centre of the universeAt last to hold with Him converseWhose glance to worlds brings death or life,Whose power’s proclaimed by tempests’ strife,By myriad orbs which round Him course,Whose wondrous wisdom and whose forceThe wisest mind can never traceThe soul, surcharged; lit up by GraceDivine, laved in His glorious light,Just as is the white swan’s delightTo dip into the waters of the lake,“Hail Thee! Almighty God!” it spake,“A grain of sand, Lord, made by thee,I come full of humilityTo kneel here in Thy saintly shrine.Oh pray, believe that I am Thine,And Thine alone! I don’t complainThe dread fate that Thou didst ordainFor me is hard, I bless Thee e’en, I knowBy it to be Thy chosen one.O, God! The human race uponThe earth has turned its face from Thee,Degenerates, and slaves to bePrefers to manhood proud and free.
The parent of all sin and viceIs serfdom. Men will idoliseMen, and by bending neck and kneeBefore a man, defy but Thee.This cannot ever continue thus,Thou shalt yet reign Most Glorious!One life, Lord, Thou hast given me,I ask not what reward shall be,If any, — mine, the meanest manWill for his pay do all he can;I want no pay, I hope for none,I faithfully my work have doneTill now and shall hereafter do,Ah well! I shall receive my due!A rich reward, for can there beReward more rich than feel that freeMy fellow men became through me!For I still love my fellow man,Though sin still holds him in its ban.O Lord, O God! Pray give me strengthThat I accomplish my intent.Man must be free! That is my plan.”
Thus spoke the soul, and from the domeOf heaven high it flew back home,Into that dismal, dreary room,Back to the soulless man, to whomIt brought back consciousness. — He stirredWas it a dream? What had occurred?He felt all chilled, yet from his browThe burning sweat-drops roll, and howA — weary, sleepy is he now! — He must have been awake before.And to the mattress on the floorHe drags himself and goes to sleep.And there he lies upon that heapOf straw, who but a while agoIn heaven had been. — On cushions fineHumanity’s hangmen recline;The world’s benefactor heUpon the floor asleep we see.
And lo! The flick’ring lamp once moreFlares up and then its sick and soreLife dies. And just as secrets toldBy lip to lip will quick unfold:Thus cleared the night. The early dawn — The merry garden maid, — had drawnBright roses with the hue of bloomOn wall and window of that room.The first rays of the rising sunFell on the sleepers forehead, spunA wreath of gold around ‘his brow,And then it seemed Great God, that ThouHadst with these rays just kissed Thy son.
IV.
Who art thou apparition marvellous?The raiment of thy soul’s a regal cloak,Thy body though is clad in threadbare rags.Thou and thy dear ones miss their daily foodAnd if perchance a piece of soft, black breadTo bring home to thy table bare of clothThou didst succeed, it marked a holiday.Those whom thou lovest best thou canst support,But eager art for all the world to toil.To enter heaven on high is given to thee,But barred before thee is the rich man’s door.Who with the Lord on High hast had converseRebuffed wert, spokest thou to some great manWho with contempt looks on thy shabby form.Some people say, that an Apostle he,Some say he is a miserable wretch.Who art thou? Knowest them who gave thee birth?Are they, thy parents, proud to hear thy nameOr causeth it their face to burn with shame?Tell us, where wert thou born? On velvet couch,Or in a manger, on a heap of straw?
Shall I the story of his life now tell?I will; but if I were to paint the sameI would describe it as a brook, which sprangFrom unknown rock where croaking ravens dwell.At every inch it flows o’er rock and stone,Its murmur is the groan of constant pain.
V.
The town-clock’s tongue proclaimed the midnight hour.It was a dreary cruel winter night.The two mean despots of such nights prevailed,One is the darkness and the cold its twin,The world was all indoors, for no one daredTo tempt God and be out at such a time!The streets, on which a short hour agoA mass of people thronged, are empty now,As is the river’s bed which has run dry.In the abandoned streets, one lunatic, — The gale, — roameth about. It rides as fastAs if the devil had sat astride on himAnd urged him on and on with spurs of fire.All angrily he leaps from roof to roof,Blows into every chimney he might meet;He then resumes his flight and with full throatHe yells loud into the blind night’s deaf ears.He grasps the clouds which on his way he found.With sharpened nail he tears them into shreds.The stars above affrighted seem to be,Betwixt the shreds of clouds tremblingly shine.The pale moon glides upon the heaven’s domeAs floats a lifeless corpse upon a lake — The gale, to catch its breath, a moment stopped,Into a mighty mass then blew the clouds,And from the height, just like a bird of prey,It swooped down to the earth: uprooted trees,Broke window panes and carried fences off.When it had roused the people with its noise,Who, frightened, looked what happened, it was goneAnd they but hear its ghastly laughter’s voice.Depopulated are the storm-swept streets;Who would be out at such a time! — But no!There goes a human form. Is it a ghost?
Yes, it approaches like a ghost. When nearAnd nearer still it came a female formOne recognizes, but to know her stateThe secret of the darkness it remained.Is she a lady or a mendicant?Approaching, cautiously she looks around.There at the curb she notes a cab to stop,Sees on the seat the driver sound asleep.With noiseless step she draweth near. To steal?Oh, no! Just the reverse. She opens the door,Put in the cab what she bore in her arms.Then carefully again she shuts the doorAnd quickly, as thoughts fly, she disappears.The house-door where the cab stood opens soon,A lady and a gentleman come forth,Get in, the driver promptly whips it up,Is off with rapid gait and never hearsThe lady’s piercing scream, who at her feetHas found a bundle which contained a babe.
The cab its destination reached and stopped,The lady and the gentleman descend,The lady to the driver says: “Here man,“Here is your fare, the tip is in the cab:“A bouncing newborn babe; take care of him“A gift from heaven to you he seems to be.”Said it and with the man entered the house.
Poor, God-forsaken foundling in that cab!Why wert not born a dog? Her LadyshipWould on her lap have gladly played with you;And petted, played with you with loving care.Unfortunately though you are no dog,A human being art. God only knowsIs bright, is dark the fate for you in store?The driver only scratched his head and ear,Then murmured something, but it is not knownDid he a prayer say, or did he curse.The gift of God was not welcome to him.He ponders deeply what he is to do?Should he the bastard to the stables take?Dared he to do this, he felt pretty sureThe irate boss would throw it at his head,Kick both into the street, he’ll lose his job.What’s to be done? His whip comes fiercely downAnd off he drives at a most rapid rate.While driving through the outskirts of the town,A hostelry he saw. There’s life within,The window’s red light’s like a drunkard’s nose.The driver could not wish for better chance,Upon its threshold puts the gift of God,And then resumes his drive towards his home.Just then, one of the drunken crowd within,Himself quite full, good-night said to his friends.While stepping o’er the threshold of the innHe stumbleth and he hurries deep his noseInto the frozen snow. In BillingsgateHis injured dignity finds prompt relief.Then says:— “That threshold grew since yesterday.Had it been yesterday as high as nowI would have had to fall then too. I didn’t.Still I did not drink one more drop to-day.I have my principles, I am exact,And every day I drink the same amount.”Such was his monologue as he arose.He starts to go, but murmurs to himself’Tis all in vain, I don’t care what you sayThat threshold must have grown since yesterday.I won’t give in, I know whereof I speak,Did I drink more to-day than yesterday?And yet I fell to-day. Shame and disgrace.I say that threshold grows. But no! Hold on!Might not a stone have been put in my way?That might well be the case. The world is mean,Some men are very bad, yes, very bad.And glad to see a fellow-being fall;Put stones into my way, my feet are blindAnd my poor nose must pay the penalty.My consolation is when they come outWho still carouse in there, they too must fall.I have a mind to hide myself somewhereTo see them stumbling, falling! Ha, ha, ha!What’s that? Hold on old man! Ain’t you ashamedTo feel elated o’er your fellows ills?To show repentance I shall now go backAnd I’ll remove that stone. I am a thief,A robber, and I more than once have hitMen o’er the head so that they never rose.My conscience how’er does not allowTo see men break their noses as did I.The good, old drunken man then totters backThe stone to pick up, he does pick it up,But ah! He looks at it. What’s that? It screams.The hoary man indeed dumbfounded is,And all amazed he thus speaks to himself:“By thund’rous lightning from above! What’s this?No stone like this was ever in’ my hands.’Tis soft and then it has a human voice.Let’s by the window look at it. Ho ho!It is a child, a real and living child.Good evening brother dear, or sister sweet,I know not which you are, a boy? a girl?How in the devil’s name did you come here?You ran away from home? You rascal you!What nonsense is this stupid talk of mine.The little one is still in swaddling clothes.Did I the parents know I’d take it back.What mean, contemptible, what brutal thingTo cast one’s offspring, off as one discardsA worn-out boot. No hog does ever this,Not e’en the outlaw for the gallows fit.The wraps are threadbare, ’tis poor people’s child.Suppose, that just to hide its rich descentIt had been with intent put into rags?Forevermore, this must secret remain.Poor child! who will your father be? I will!Why not? Yes, Henceforth I your father am.I’ll bring you up all right! I’ll steal for you,And when through age my hand can no more steal — It is but fair, — you shall then steal for me.Henceforth my thefts shall be more justified,I’ll have to steal for two, for my little son,My conscience, too, shall now bother me less.But let me see! You need a mother’s breast.Just now that is the most important thing.Oh, yes! that woman living near my roomsBuried but yesterday her new-born babe.She’ll gladly nurse my child, of course she willFor money she would nurse the devil’s own.”
Such were his thoughts while slowly home he went.Through narrow lanes and hidden paths he walkedTo his own subterranean dark cave.His neighbor he aroused by knocking loudAnd louder still, upon her door. “Get up!”He yelled and almost battered down her door.
“Come woman, hurry up!” the old man plead.“Light up a candle quick, don’t ask: for what?For whom? and why? If you don’t hurry upI’ll burn the house up o’er your lazy bones.Well, well at least! and thanks, here is the light,Now take this babe, sit down, give him your breast.Ah, nurse it well! How does it come to me?I found it on my way, God’s gift to me.I always said it: God is good to me.God loves me more than Priests might think He doesThis baby here a precious treasure is,I place it, woman, now into your care;And more attention than you gave your ownGive this one or I’ll have something to say.Of course for all expense you look, to me,We will agree how much I’ll have to pay.While it is true that money now is scarce,The dickens knows, all men seem argus-eyed,Don’t worry, I shall pay you like a prince.Let me impress you though; take care of it,As if it were the apple of your eye,It is the hope of my declining days.”They bargained and agreed. She took the child,Which sucked with eager greed the proffered breast,Imbibed sweet nurture for a bitter life.Just one day old and what has it gone through!And still will have to go through all its life!
VI.
Next day, at early hour, the old man calledUpon the woman. “Well, how is your guest?”He asks her eagerly, “but Brrr! ‘t is cold!Quick, build a fire! Must I forever swear?I stand for all expense! Rut — by the way,You didn’t tell. Is it a boy or girl?”— “It is a boy, a strong and healthy boy,Yes, sir, a finer boy I never saw.”“So much the better. In eight years from now,He’ll be as fine a thief as was the oneWho with our Jesus Christ was crucified.I’ll take his education in my hands,And make of him the most successful thief.That far-famed thief, who but few days agoUpon the gallows died. — You knew Blind Tom?I brought him up! There was a clever thief!On one eye blind himself, a thousand eyesWatched all in vain when Blind Tom was aroused.My boy, fear naught, I swear I’ll not make youA swineherd or some common thing like that!But, my good woman, I almost forgot!The boy must have a decent Christian name!A name which he’ll make famed throughout the world.Come, dear old girl, help me to find a name.On ‘Saint Sylvester eve I found the boyWhy not give him that name? Let’s baptize him,Let him a Christian, not a heathen be.Saint Peter at the gate, when once my boyCasts off his mortal coil, must find no fault.I’ll be the Priest, the god-mother you’ll be.Is there some water in that pot? There is.Come, hold the boy, — but no! The priestly garbIs most essential; wait. There is that bag„I hang it as a cassock ‘round my neck.”And then with mock solemnity, the boyWas jocularly christened and receivedSylvester as his first and lawful name.
VII.
Four years have passed. To boyhood grew the babe,There in the darkness, in the cave, he grewBy vice surrounded and by vermin plagued.He did not breathe the heaven’s balmy air,The beauty of the fields he never saw.He lived, he moved about, but was like dead.
The old man found in him his great delight.For brain and aptitude he plainly showed,As from the flint spring sparks. The old man knewIt is the spark which makes the fires ignite.
Four years of age — and he had learned to steal:Fruit from a stand and coins from blind man’s hats.For each such deed the old man praised him high,Rewarded him with some token of love.The same time he would reprimand him, too,The days on which the boy brought nothing home,These days, however, were now very rare.The hopes and expectations of the manGrew day by day and on his day-dreams’ rocksHe built the finest castles in the air.He built them high, until himself was caught,The good old man, the thoughtful guardian,Until he swung himself, up in the air,The ripe fruit of the tree as “gallows” known.
The woman who had nursed and fed the boyWas present when the hangman made the knotWhich made her friend and benefactor swingUpon the gallow’s beams, hanged by the neck,His tongue protrudes as had he stuck it outTo show his own contempt at all the worldFor dealing with him thus. When all was o’er,The beldame goeth home and to the boyWith gentlest, sweetest voice she spoke like this:“Get ready boy, the devil can take you now,And in the name of God now go to hell;Who for your keep had paid is gone there too.Now that his payments stop, I too must stopTo feed you, and my boy you have to go!I shall be kind enough to you once more,I take you to the corner of the street;If you come back, I’ll drown you in the ditch.”The little boy did not grasp all she said.When lead away and told to go: he went.By instinct he obeyed and never turnedBut walked and walked from street to street.He never yet had been so far from home,All that his eyes beheld was new to him.The splendid shops, the marvellous displaysAnd men and women clad in wondrous style.Amazed be looked at thousands of new things.One street leads him into another streetAnd never reached the outskirts of the town.From marching long, from marveling great dealHe had grown tired. A curbstone proffers rest.Contented leans on it his weary head.From where he sits, he sees some boys at play,He smiles and thinks their toys are also hisAnd that he himself is their welcome chum.He watched their, play until he fell asleep.He had a good long sleep, then in a dreamSaw two red ‘burning sparks acoming nearAnd nearer still, intent to burn his eyes.He shrieked with fright and suddenly awoke.Late night was on, the stars on high shone bright,The streets were empty, but before him stoodA hag, whose glaring eyes the boy feared moreThan he had feared the sparks his dream had seen.The curbstone he holds fast, he is afraidTo look at her or turn his eyes away.The hag though, pats him in a friendly way,And gently as is given to her to be,She asks of him: “What is your name, my boy?Who are your parents? and where do you live?Shall I escort you home? Come, take my hand.“Sylvester is my name, I have no oneI father, mother call. I never had.I was first found upon the public street.The woman said: Never again come home,If you come back, I’ll drown you in the ditch.”
‘“Then come, my darling boy, then come with me.A loving, mother I shall be to you.”The woman then took by the hand the boy,Who meekly followed her wonderinglyAnd knowing not what had happened to him.“See, my dear boy, this is our home”, she saidWhen she had reached her home. “This room is mine,The kitchen here shall henceforth be your home.You will not lonely be, my pet dog here,A nice dog, is he not? — will share with youThis carpet, it is big enough for both.It is a splendid bed, you cannot askA better one. The dog will keep you warm.Be not afraid of him, he does not bite,He is a gentle dog. You will be friends.See him looking at you, wagging his tail.I have no doubt you will each other like,As if you brothers were. Now go to sleep.You want something to eat? It is not goodThat children eat at night. In awful dreamsAnd nightmares devils tease them in their sleep.”Much better ’tis, go nicely now to sleep.”The miserable hag left him alone.With terror trembling he lay down at lastUpon the carpet’s edge, but not too closeTo his companion. The dog howe’erCrawled up to him in a most friendly way.The animal’s bright eye shone in the nightAnd courage, confidence conveyed to him.The boy petted the dog which licked his face.The boy e’en spoke to him, for a replyThe dog whined and the two were soon good friends.
Upon the morn thus spoke the dame to him:“Listen to me, my boy, you’ll clearly seeI cannot keep you here without some pay.Not e’en the grave of Christ is being watchedFor nothing, You will have to go to work.The Bible even says: Who do not workGet naught to eat. Your work will easy be,You shall have nothing else to do but beg.I am too worn to work and I have grown too fat.The men are heartless and they chase me offIf I for alms stretch out my greasy hands.Now you must beg for me, when men see youTheir hearts must move in tender sympathyAnd freely give their mite. You’ll have to sayYour father died, your mother’s ill at home,I’ll watch you from the distance and I sayIf you heed my commands you will fare well.Be careful boy, I’m good when I am good,But I am very mean when I am mean.Remember this and never let it passOut of your mind. You will abegging go.You will stretch out your hand to everyoneWho’s better dressed than you, and I’ll look outThat those you meet shall all be of this class.You’ll drop your head upon one side like this,Your eyebrows draw up, see — , as I do now,Your eyelids must be always moist and thenYou whine and whimper: “In the name of ChristPlease help! My father’s dead, my mother’s sick,”Did you catch on? You’ll have to learn the art,Or with a cane I beat it in your head.”
The boy said he has understood her well,He’ll not forget it and he will not fail.She made him try to do the trick, and lo!She was amazed how clever was his work.
“A gold mine I have found in you, my boy,Bravo! Henceforth we’ll lead a princely life.A princely life is ours!” the witch exclaimed.“Let’s to the harvest go. Would you first eat?You’ll eat when we come back, ’tis better then;’Tis anyhow the best you don’t eat much,You’ll grow too fat and who does sympathiseWith beggar boys who are well fed and fat,To beggars who are fat come meager alms.”The two then went into a busy street,The hag assigned him to a certain spot,Herself went into a gin mill near byFrom whence she watched the boy and foully grinnedAnd raised her whiskey glass whene’er she sawHim harvesting the mite of charity.
VIII.
Two years, one like the other slowly passed,The boy did naught, — the beldame took good care,But beg for alms and suffer hunger’s pangs.To famish and to beg that’s all he knewOf life. When he saw children at their play,He’d stare at them and think: it must be goodTo be allowed to play and joyous be.From day to day his mind grew more matureAnd he began to feel his misery.Two years he had thus lived: a beggar boy.There was no longer need with artful trickTo wet his eyelids, his hot-burning tearsFlowed oft enough to suit the old hag’s aims.
He had one friend, but one who had been kind,Who seemed to love him, whom he really loved,With whom he shared the food received at home,Or which he found while wandering through town,His sleeping-mate, the dog, was this one friend:
When in the morn the boy would go awayHis heart was sore, all day he longed for him.Returning in the eve he was all joy.The woman soon had truly jealous grown,Yes, jealous of the love the dog had shownTo him, the boy, and was estranged from her.She often whipped the dog and when with painIt whined, the boy heartrendingly would cry.At last she chased the animal awayAnd more than once she drove it from the house.The faithful beast, though, always would come back,And was the more attached to our poor boy.Thus lived the boy. He was six years of age,Woe of six centuries had been his share,The moments’ bliss were far and far between.He stood once on the corner of a street,Chilled through and through, it was late in the fall,A nasty autumn eve, mire on the earth,The air filled with a heavy, chilling fog.And there he stood, — his head and feet were bare,With tearful voice imploring passers-byAnd stretching forth his bony, yellow hand.His plaintive voice, when heard by human heartsOft seemed to have the mournful toll of bellsWhich to the last rites in the churchyard called.A hoary man with earnest, solemn faceCame up to him, stood still and looked at himFor quite a while with sharp and piercing eyes.The boy took fright, made start to run away,A rough command: “stop boy!” prevents his flight,The boy stood still, he did not dare to breathe.“Are your parents alive?” he is then asked.“My-My”, — he was about to say his sayAbout his mother who is ill at home,And hungry, too; the father who just died,But to the solemn looking earnest manHe did not dare to lie; he thought the manKnew anyhow the truth and he replied:“Are my parents alive? I do not know,I never knew, I was found in the street!”“Then come with me”, the old man to him said.Obedient, the boy followed his steps.The old hag came forth from her hiding placeAnd yelled: “Come here, lying, deceitful boy,My dear, good Sir, this boy here is my own.”“Dear, gracious Sir,” — the boy began to plead,“Dear gracious Sir, believe, I’m not her son.Please in the name of God and all the SaintsO, save me, please, take me along with you.I am so tired to do naught, else than beg;I always begged for her, I had to starveThat I might always look as I do now.That those who look at me might pity me.O God! how hungry I am even now!”Thus spoke the boy, he looked up to the manWith pleading eyes which were suffused with tears.“You God-forsaken wretch! You devil’s imp!” — Berated him the witch, “You heartless cur,You good-for-nothing, vile and worthless shrimp!How dare you say you had to beg for me?To beg for me? I feel shamed unto deathThat he, the moment I lose him from sightRuns off to beg, — the habit grew on himDespite the spanking he from me received.To bring such shame upon my hoary head!I am but poor but I need not to beg,With honest work I can support myself.And then to say that I force him to starve!I, who no greater happiness have knownThan yielding him the choicest, wholesome food,Deny it to myself to give to him.All this howe’er is naught! What does he do?He dares his doting mother to deny!Did not your heart break into twain, you wretch,You miserable beast in human form,Your mother to deny! What you said nowCame from your gall, your liver and your spleen,Not from your heart! The earth has never knownA granny more loving than I have been.The day of judgment can’t be far awayWhen children dare their mothers to deny.”The ancient windmill ground this with one breath,Until, at last, the man broke in her speech:“Enough! I’ve heard enough! You foul old witch.This comedy must stop, or with this caneI’ll have to put the fear of God in you!Why, even now you are full beastly drunk.When sober, bring his birth certificateTo me, — I live in yonder spacious house,And you can have the boy, but only ifYou can produce the birth-certificate.Not otherwise! and now, boy, follow me!”
The boy followed the man. From time to timeHe furtively looked back, as if in fearThat she, the gruesome hag, would grab at himAnd wring his neck, or drag him to her home.However she stood still and all she didWas that she raised her fist and cursed aloudAnd rolled fiery eyes which sparkled likeThe irons of the smith to white-heat raised.
IX.
The boy’s fate turned. He now saw better days,No more was he compelled to steal or beg.What happiness! What bliss! Once in a whileHowe’er he feared the old hag, might yet bringHis birth certificate and drag him off,And if she did, what could then be his fate.And here and there the dove Of sorrow and regretWould hover over him, came to his mindThe friend and chum he left behind: the dog,And for the dog he’d almost willing beTo his old home to go again to begThat he again might be with his one friend.He often dreamed of him and in his dreamsHe held the dog in his loving embrace,Who gently gladly lapped his hand and face.When waking from his sleep the poor boy weptBecause but in a dream he saw his friend.
When with the gentleman he had come homeHe was consigned by him to servants’ careWho cleaned him of the dirt of all the yearsAnd dressed him into new and decent clothes.
How well he felt. As had he never livedAnd had been born but now, a happy boy.The old man then commanded him: “Come here,And list to what I have to say to you.”
“This boy here is my son, your master he,And you must always call him “gracious Sir”!He is your muster, you his servant are,He will command, you must obey his will.You have naught else to do but to obey,Be prompt and be exact; remember well,One look of his and you must do his bid.All will be well if you submissive are,You’ll feed well and you will wear decent clothes,But should you not obey: mark what I say,The rags in which I found you you get back,You’ll be expelled from here and you can goTo be the beggar boy you were before.”
The orphan boy became a faithful slave.He stood and walked beside his youthful lordAs if his living shadow he had been:He watched his every move and his commandsHad hardly been expressed when they were filled.The boy however was made to suffer much.The youthful master, like all of his ilk,Was a contemptuous little autocratWho never ceased to make him feel that heThe lord and master is and he the slave.For instance, if the hot soup burned his lipsHe’d turn upon the boy and slap his face.If someone did not doff the hat to himHe’d knock the boy’s hat off with brutal glee.When combing he awkwardly used the combHe’d fall upon the boy and pull his hair.There was no mean, no vile, dastardly trickThe young lord would not play upon his slave.Maliciously he would step on his toes,Then kick at him and say: “You’re in my way.”Besmear with mud the boy, then deal him blowsBecause he dared to come to him unclean,Throw water in his face and when he weptHe called him by the foul name “bastard-boy”.The poor boy suffered much. From day to dayHis sufferings increased. He bore it all.He bore it all with patience like a manWithin whom lives a high and noble soul.Why did he bear it? Why did he not leaveAs it had been so often in his mind?Ah! if you only knew why he remained!The sweetness of the bread, the decent clothesWere not what kept him back when more than onceHe was about to run away.He was not like the chicken or the gooseWhich wanders off but will come home to roost,Unlike the lark, unlike the nightingaleWhich freed from cage where dainty food is theirs,Forever leave the same and are contentTo seek subsistence in sweet freedom’s air.
Thus felt the boy and yet he had remained,The bird in cage, for freedom pined and yetLike chicken and the goose he stayed at home,Whene’er he started he came always back.What brought him back? His thirst to learn, to know.Standing behind his youthful lord, he learned,He peeped into his books, heard every wordThe tutor said. The real pupil was he.He learned with ease and he could read and writeMuch sooner than his highborn, youthful lord.And as the years passed by, his knowledge grewAs yearly grow the antlers of the deer,And he began to feel proud of himself.Did, as was oft the case, his gracious chiefTalk nonsense, he all to himself, unheard,Corrected him and pitifully smiledAt such dull ignorance he saw displayed.
The tutor noted all. He could not helpImpressed to be with the superior mindAnd intellect of our poor servant boy.He’d call on him the lessons to reciteIn which the master failed, although the boyHad learned them but by hearing them read off.The tutor tried his pupil thus to shame.The servant boy carried the honors off,The vicious master though revenged ‘himself,For humbling him, his vanity and pride.From day to day he would subject the boyTo more and more indignities most base,From day to day our poor boy suffered more,He felt how undeserved the master’s blows,Which no longer caused his bones to ache
