Whence had he come there? Who could say, As he swung through Danbury town that day, With a friendly light in his deep-set eyes, And his free wild gait and his upright bearing, And his air that nothing could well surprise, So bright it was and so bold and daring? He might have troubled the slothful ease Of the Great Mogul in a warlike fever; He might have bled for the Maccabees, Or risen, spurred By the Prophet's word, And swooped on the hosts of the unbeliever.
Whatever his birth and his nomenclature, Something he seemed to have, some knowledge That never was taught at school or college, But was part of his very being's nature: Some ingrained lore that wanderers show As over the earth they come and go, Though they hardly know what it is they know.
And so with his head upheld he walked, And ever the rain drove down; And now and again to himself he talked In the streets of Danbury town. And now and again he'd stop and troll A stave of music that seemed to roll From the inmost depths of his ardent soul; But the wind took hold of the notes and tossed them And the few who chanced to be near him lost them.
So, moving on where his fancy listed, He came to a street that turned and twisted; And there by a shop-front dimly lighted He suddenly stopped as though affrighted, Stopped and stared with his deep gaze centred On something seen, like a dream's illusion, Through the streaming glass, mid the queer confusion Of objects littered on shelf and floor, And about the counter and by the door-- And then with his lips set tight he entered.
There were rusty daggers and battered breastplates, And jugs of pewter and carved oak cases, And china monsters with hideous faces, And cracked old plates that had once been best plates; And needle-covers and such old-wivery; Wonderful chess-men made from ivory; Cut-glass bottles for wines and brandies, Sticks once flourished by bucks and dandies; Deep old glasses they drank enough in, And golden boxes they took their snuff in; Rings that flashed on a gallant's knuckles, Seals and lockets and shining buckles; Watches sadly in need of menders, Blackened firedogs and dinted fenders; Prints and pictures and quaint knick-knackery, Rare old silver and mere gimcrackery-- Such was the shop, and in its middle Stood an old man holding a dusty fiddle.