And errant wielders of the quill; And old-world princes, strayed afar, In thread-bare exile chasing still The glimpses of a natal star; And Woman—taking refuge there With woman’s toil, and trust, and song, And something of a piquant air Defiant, as who must and dare Steer her own shallop, right or wrong. A certain noble nature schools, In scorn of smaller, mincing rules, The maidens of Bohemia. X. But we pursued our pilgrimage Far on, through hazy lengths of road, Or crumbling cities gray with age; And stayed in many a queer abode, Days, seasons, years,—wherein were born Of infant pilgrims, one, two, three; And ever, though with travel worn, Nor garnered for the morrow’s morn, We seemed a merry company,— We, and the mates whom friendship, or What sunshine fell within our door, Drew to us in Bohemia. XI. For Ambrose—priest without a cure— Christened our babes, and drank the wine He blessed, to make the blessing sure; And Ralph, the limner—half-divine The picture of my Blanche he drew, As Saint Cecilia ’mong the caves,— She singing; eyes a holy blue, Upturned and rapturous; hair, in hue, Gold rippled into amber waves. There, too, is wayward, wild Annette, Danseuse and warbler and grisette, True daughter of Bohemia, XII. But all by turns and nothing long; And Rose, whose needle gains her bread; And bookish Sibyl,—she whose tongue The bees of Hybla must have fed; And one—a poet—nowise sage For self, but gay companion boon And prophet of the golden age; He joined us in our pilgrimage Long since, one early Autumn noon When, faint with journeying, we sate Within a wayside hostel-gate To rest us in Bohemia. XIII. In rusty garb, but with an air Of grace, that hunger could not whelm, He told his wants, and—“Could we spare Aught of the current of the realm— A shilling?”—which I gave; and so Came talk, and Blanche’s kindly smile; Whereat he felt his heart aglow, And said: “Lo, here is silver! lo, Mine host hath ale! and it were vile, If so much coin were spent by me For bread, when such good company Is gathered in Bohemia.” XIV. Richer than Kaiser on his throne, A royal stoup he bade them bring; And so, with many of mine own, His shilling vanished on the wing; And many a skyward-floating strain He sang, we chorusing the lay Till all the hostel rang again; But when the day began to wane, Along the sequel of our way He kept us pace; and, since that time, We never lack for song and rhyme To cheer us, in Bohemia. XV.