Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine,
You cast a shoe, and at this dusty Dragon,
Where beast and man were equal on the sign,
Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon:
The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops,
A road-side break beyond the straggling shops.
And so directed, thereupon you led
Your halting roadster to a kind of pass,
This you descended with a crumbling tread,
And found the sea beneath you like a glass;
And soon, beside a building partly walled—
Half hut, half cave—you raised your voice and called.
Then a dog growled; and straightway there began
Tumult within—for, bleating with affright,
A goat burst out, escaping from the can;
And, following close, rose slowly into sight—
Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan—
An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man.
Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too:
You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail
Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew
An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,
Bared a red forearm, bringing into view
Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.
And then he lit his fire.... But I dispense
Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse,
As being but a colorable pretence
To bring an awkward hero in perforce;
Since this our smith, for reasons never known,
To most society preferred his own.
Women declared that he'd an "Evil Eye,"—
This in a sense was true—he had but one;
Men, on the other hand, alleged him shy:
We sometimes say so of the friends we shun;
But, wrong or right, suffices to affirm it—
The Cyclops lived a veritable hermit,—
Dwelling below the cliff, beside the sea,
Caved like an ancient British Troglodyte,
Milking his goat at eve, and it may be,
Spearing the fish along the flats at night,
Until, at last, one April evening mild,
Came to the Inn a Lady and a Child.
The Lady was a nullity; the Child
One of those bright bewitching little creatures,
Who, if she once but shyly looked and smiled,
Would soften out the ruggedest of features;
Fragile and slight,—a very fay for size,—
With pale town-cheeks, and "clear germander eyes."
Nurses, no doubt, might name her "somewhat wild;"
And pedants, possibly, pronounce her "slow;"
Or corset-makers add, that for a child,
She needed "cultivation;"—all I know
Is that whene'er she spoke, or laughed, or romped, you
Felt in each act the beauty of impromptu.
The Lady was a nullity—a pale,
Nerveless and pulseless quasi-invalid,
Who, lest the ozone should in aught avail,
Remained religiously indoors to read;
So that, in wandering at her will, the Child
Did, in reality, run "somewhat wild."