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!)