FullReads

He kept his secret; but the seed of crime
Bursts of itself in God’s appointed time.
The lives he wrecked were scattered far and wide;
One never blamed nor wept,–she only died.
None knew his lot, though idle tongues would say
He sought a lonely refuge far away,
And there, with borrowed name and altered mien,
He died unheeded, as he lived unseen.
The moral market had the usual chills
Of Virtue suffering from protested bills;
The White Cravats, to friendship’s memory true,
Sighed for the past, surveyed the future too;
Their sorrow breathed in one expressive line,–
“Gave pleasant dinners; who has got his wine?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The reader paused,–the Teacups knew his ways,–
He, like the rest, was not averse to praise.
Voices and hands united; every one
Joined in approval: “Number Three, well done!”

“Now for the Exile’s story; if my wits
Are not at fault, his curious record fits
Neatly as sequel to the tale we’ve heard;
Not wholly wild the fancy, nor absurd
That this our island hermit well might be
That story’s hero, fled from over sea.
Come, Number Seven, we would not have you strain
The fertile powers of that inventive brain.
Read us ‘The Exile’s Secret’; there’s enough
Of dream-like fiction and fantastic stuff
In the strange web of mystery that invests
The lonely isle where sea birds build their nests.”

“Lies! naught but lies!” so Number Seven began,–
No harm was known of that secluded man.
He lived alone,–who would n’t if he might,
And leave the rogues and idiots out of sight?
A foolish story,–still, I’ll do my best,–
The house was real,–don’t believe the rest.
How could a ruined dwelling last so long
Without its legends shaped in tale and song?
Who was this man of whom they tell the lies?
Perhaps–why not?–NAPOLEON! in disguise,–
So some said, kidnapped from his ocean coop,
Brought to this island in a coasting sloop,–
Meanwhile a sham Napoleon in his place
Played Nap. and saved Sir Hudson from disgrace.
Such was one story; others used to say,
“No,–not Napoleon,–it was Marshal Ney.”
“Shot?” Yes, no doubt, but not with balls of lead,
But balls of pith that never shoot folks dead.
He wandered round, lived South for many a year,
At last came North and fixed his dwelling here.
Choose which you will of all the tales that pile
Their mingling fables on the tree-crowned isle.
Who wrote this modest version I suppose
That truthful Teacup, our Dictator, knows;
Made up of various legends, it would seem,
The sailor’s yarn, the crazy poet’s dream.
Such tales as this, by simple souls received,
At first are stared at and at last believed;
From threads like this the grave historians try
To weave their webs, and never know they lie.
Hear, then, the fables that have gathered round
The lonely home an exiled stranger found.