Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Russia: Vol. XX. 1876–79.
The Kings Jewel
By Phbe Cary (18241871)’T
Shrink from the tempest’s breath,
For the winter snows were bitter,
And the winds were cruel as death.
Had the white storm sifted down
Till it almost hid the humble huts
Of the poor outside the town.
With a sort of reckless spite,
As if to add to their wretchedness
Who sat by its hearth that night;
Took his pale wife by the hand,
And told her that when the morrow came
They would have no home in the land.
With the rent that was due at morn;
And his cold, hard-hearted landlord
Had spurned his prayers with scorn.
And read, while his eyes grew dim,
To see if any comfort
Were written there for him;
On the casement, soft and light:
It was n’t the storm; but what else could be
Abroad in such a night?
But for wonder scarce could speak,
As a bird flew in with a jewelled ring
Held flashing in his beak.
“And that is the precious ring
That once I saw on the royal hand
Of our good and gracious king.
Once came with food to men,
Who knows,” said the foolish peasant,
“But they might be sent again!”
And knocked at the palace gate,
And gave to the king the jewel
They had searched for long and late.
Which the peasant had to tell,
He gave him a fruitful garden,
And a home wherein to dwell.
These words that all might see:
“Thou hast called on the Lord in trouble,
And he hath delivered thee!”