Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 1. Interlude 1

The Landlord ended thus his tale, Then rising took down from its nail The sword that hung there, dim with dust And cleaving to its sheath with rust, And said, 'This sword was in the fight.' The Poet seized it, and exclaimed, 'It is the sword of a good knight, Though homespun was his coat-of-mail; What matter if it be not named Joyeuse, Colada, Durindale, Excalibar, or Aroundight, Or other name the books record? Your ancestor, who bore this sword As Colonel of the Volunteers, Mounted upon his old gray mare, Seen here and there and everywhere, To me a grander shape appears Than old Sir William, or what not, Clinking about in foreign lands With iron gauntlets on his hands, And on his head an iron pot!' All laughed; the Landlord's face grew red As his escutcheon on the wall; He could not comprehend at all The drift of what the Poet said; For those who had been longest dead Were always greatest in his eyes; And be was speechless with surprise To see Sir William's pluméd head Brought to a level with the rest, And made the subject of a jest. And this perceiving, to appease The Landlord's wrath, the others' fears, The Student said, with careless ease, 'The ladies and the cavaliers, The arms, the loves, the courtesies, The deeds of high emprise, I sing! Thus Ariosto says, in words That have the stately stride and ring Of arméd knights and clashing swords. Now listen to the tale I bring; Listen! though not to me belong The flowing draperies of his song, The words that rouse, the voice that charms. The Landlord's tale was one of arms, Only a tale of love is mine, Blending the human and divine, A tale of the Decameron, told In Palmieri's garden old, By Fiametta, laurel-crowned, While her companions lay around, And heard the intermingled sound Of airs that on their errands sped, And wild birds gossiping overhead, And lisp of leaves, and fountain's fall, And her own voice more sweet than all, Telling the tale, which, wanting these, Perchance may lose its power to please.'