FROM "RHECUS"

HEAR now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of gracious youth and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhecus, wandering in the wood,

Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall,
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree,
He propped its gray trunk with admiring

care,

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered

on.

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured "Rhocus!" "T was as if the leaves,

Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it,

And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured "Rhocus!" softer than a breeze.

He started and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy

dream

Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow

Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.

It seemed a woman's shape, yet far too fair

To be a woman, and with eyes too meek
For any that were wont to mate with gods.
All naked like a goddess stood she there,
And like a goddess all too beautiful
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.
"Rhecus, I am the Dryad of this tree,"
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned
words

Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew,

"And with it I am doomed to live and die; The rain and sunshine are my caterers, Nor have I other bliss than simple life;

Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can

give,

And with a thankful joy it shall be thine."

Then Rhecus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet by the prompting of such beauty bold, Answered: What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my nature's goal."

After a little pause she said again,

But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, "I give it, Rhocus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see

But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak,

And not a sound came to his straining ears
But the low trickling rustle of the leaves,
And far away upon an emerald slope
The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe.

Now, in those days of simpleness and faith,

Men did not think that happy things were dreams

Because they overstepped the narrow bourn
Of likelihood, but reverently deemed
Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful
To be the guerdon of a daring heart.
So Rhacus made no doubt that he was

blest,

And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked,

The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont,

And he could scarce believe he had not wings,

Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his

veins

Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange.

Young Rhœcus had a faithful heart enough,

But one that in the present dwelt too much,

And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that,

Like the contented peasant of a vale, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond.

So, haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at the dice,

He joined them, and forgot all else beside.

The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhocus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee

That buzzed about his ear with downdropped legs

As if to light. And Rhocus laughed and said,

Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss,

Then Rhocus beat his breast and groaned aloud,

And cried "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!" "Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is thou art blind,

Not I unmerciful; I can forgive,

But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes;
Only the soul hath power o'er itself.”
With that again there murmured "Never-
more !"

And Rhacus after heard no other sound,
Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves,
Like the long surf upon a distant shore
Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down.
The night had gathered round him: o'er
the plain

The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze:

Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth.

A STANZA ON FREEDOM

THEY are slaves who fear to speak
For the fallen and the weak;
They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think;
They are slaves who dare not be

In the right with two or three.

HEBE

I SAW the twinkle of white feet,
I saw the flash of robes descending;
Before her ran an influence fleet,
That bowed my heart like barley bending.

As, in bare fields, the searching bees
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding,
It led me on, by sweet degrees
Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding.

Those Graces were that seemed grim
Fates;

With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me; The long-sought Secret's golden gates On musical hinges swung before me.

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp Thrilling with godhood; like a lover

I sprang the proffered life to clasp;The beaker fell; the luck was over.

The earth has drunk the vintage up; What boots it patch the goblet's splinters? Can Summer fill the icy cup, Whose treacherous crystal is but winter's ?

O spendthrift haste! await the Gods; The nectar crowns the lips of Patience; Haste scatters on unthankful sods The immortal gift in vain libations.

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, And shuns the hands would seize upon her; Follow thy life, and she will sue Το pour for thee the cup of honor.

SHE CAME AND WENT

As a twig trembles, which a bird
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
So is my memory thrilled and stirred;
I only know she came and went.

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,

The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven; I only know she came and went.

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
The orchards full of bloom and scent,
So clove her May my wintry sleeps; —
I only know she came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze,

Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; I only know she came and went. Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.

FROM "THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL"

FOR a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: "Tis heaven alone that is given away, "Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer.

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays; Whether we look or whether we listen, We hear life murmur or see it glisten; Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and
towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its
chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too

mean

To be some happy creature's palace; The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world and she to her

nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing; The breeze comes whispering in our ear, That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky, That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back, For other couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,

And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl,

With eyes bold as Herë's, and hair floating free,

And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing,

Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing,

Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass,

Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass,

Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist,

And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste;

She loses her fresh country charm when she takes

Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes.

ON HIMSELF

There is Lowell, who's striving Parnassus to climb

With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme,

He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders,

But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders,

The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching

Till he learns the distinction 'twixt singing and preaching;

His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well,

But he'd rather by half make a drum of the shell,

And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem,

At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.

The side of our country must ollers be took,

An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country.

An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book

Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;

On sartin pints thet rile the land;
There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns
Ez bein' mum or underhand;

I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur
Thet blurts right out wut's in his head,
An' ef I've one pecooler feetur,
It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin' An' come direcly to the pint,