The Child Mozart and St John of Bohemia

With lambs, above the world of men, There in the world of birds, So looked the young Apollo, when He—quite forgot the herds.

Perhaps it was the winds and bees, Perhaps his sweet ears rung With snatches of the melodies The morning stars had sung.

Yet this fair little foreign guest, Born somewhere in the sky, Knew—(if the truth must be confest) The boy knew how to cry.

"Look, sister, look," he sadly said, While great tears gathered slow, "There is no butter on my bread." She answered him: "I know.

"We are so poor, and that is why." "Well, what do people do When they are poor?" "Sometimes they cry." (Their mother did, she knew.)

"But don't they pray, too, sometimes?" "Yes." "Then, good St. John, I say My mother needs a prettier dress;— Please send one right away."

(St. John, hurled from a parapet At some wild Emperor's frown: Five stars brood on the Moldan yet, Five stars that saw him drown.)

"We want a new piano, too; Our old one used to play, But it forgets its music. You Are kind to all who pray?

"And there's the butter, too. But see,— Why, here he is!" And then Came laughing from behind a tree The handsomest of men,

Clothed in dark forest-green, his head High as an oak's need be, And shadowed by a plume. He said: "Come, little ones, with me."

And so the children's saint, the blest, The beautiful St. John, Walked with them—(rather oddly drest You think. Of this anon).

That day a sudden dinner, such As they had never seen, Came to their table. And how much They thanked the saint in green!

Bright as an autumn-leaf in bloom Their mother moved, and yet That night—the absence in her room Made cheek and pillow wet.

That night the old piano, too, Grieved like a living thing,— For the blonde boy, right well it knew, Had vanished with the King.

(The King, I said, but, on my word, It's quite another thing,— Somewhere in history I have heard The Queen was then the King.)

Into a place of shining state The child-musician went, In violet velvet, to await Court-kiss and compliment.

… And lo, a palace maiden bright, A vision to admire, A creature made of rose and white And gold, in brave attire!

The boy raised his flower-face as she Passed him with slow regret: "I say, and will you marry me, Miss Marie Antoinette?"

"I dare not; what would mother say?— I mean the Empress, child," The enchanted princess answered. They Who listened stared and smiled.

She tossed her shining head a bit, With one bright backward glance; And Wolfgang Mozart wept when it Gilded the axe of France.