7
O’er his fevered brow the giant palm leaves’
Fringe of green their freshness shower,
Like a winged gem the insect quivers
In the gloom of branch and flower.
Golden through its leaves the date—he graspeth
For it—woe!—but empty air he claspeth.
All is but a dream’s deceptive power!
In a smart ne suit next morn his master
Dressed him: his two-cornered hat
baude Cocked in rakish guise with gorgeous top-knot—
Sure some gift of fairy that;
Ruddy frock all filigree bedizened,
Violet ducks, in huge top-boots imprisoned,
Loose about his nether person sat.
Seated on a squeaking hurdy-gurdy
Which his master’s shoulder bore,
Off he set o’er Rhineland, France, Italia,
On his artist’s wanderjahr,
From the southern vine to Norway’s larches,
Half of Europe, covered with his marches,
Did that landless prince of apes explore.
Hailed with wild acclaim and children’s laughter,
He must show his wit, the slum
Of the town amuse, divert the village
Tavern bumpkins rude and glum,
Take his cap off, courtier-wise on one knee
Drop, play cards or smoke the sailors’ honey-
Dew, walk on his head and tipple rum,
