FIVE LIVES.

Five mites of monads dwelt in a round drop That twinkled on a leaf by a pool in the sun.

To the naked eye they lived invisible; Specks, for a world of whom the empty sh.e.l.l Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky.

One was a meditative monad, called a sage; And, shrinking all his mind within, he thought: "Tradition, handed down for hours and hours, Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal world, Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence, When I am very old, yon shimmering dome Come drawing down and down, till all things end?"

Then with a weazen smirk he proudly felt No other mote of G.o.d had ever gained Such giant grasp of universal truth.

One was a transcendental monad; thin And long and slim in the mind; and thus he mused: "Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-Souls!

Made in the image"--a hoa.r.s.e frog croaks from the pool-- "Hark! 'twas some G.o.d, voicing his glorious thought In thunder music! Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work.

Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wiggle about, and munch a trace of sc.u.m."

He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, p.r.i.c.ked by the air, and he was gone.

One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist; and he knew positively: "There is no world beyond this certain drop.

Prove me another! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower; life is life enough."

Then swaggering half a hair's breadth, hungrily He seized upon an atom of bug and fed.

One was a tattered monad, called a poet; And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he sang: "Oh, the little female monad's lips!

Oh, the little female monad's eyes!

Ah, the little, little, female, female monad!"

The last was a strong-minded monadess, Who dashed amid the infusoria, Danced high and low, and wildly spun and dove Till the dizzy others held their breath to see.

But while they led their wondrous little lives aeonian moments had gone wheeling by.

The burning drop had shrunk with fearful speed; A glistening film--'twas gone; the leaf was dry.

The little ghost of an inaudible squeak Was lost to the frog that goggled from his stone; Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thoughtful ox Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, plunged, Launched backward twice, and all the pool was still.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

THE COMING OF ARTHUR.

[_Abridged_.]

LEODOGRAN, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was fairest of all flesh on earth, Guinevere, and in her his one delight.

For many a petty king ere Arthur came Ruled in this isle and, ever waging war Each upon other, wasted all the land; And still from time to time the heathen host Swarm'd over seas, and harried what was left.

And so there grew great tracts of wilderness, Wherein the beast was ever more and more, But man was less and less. . . .

And thus the land of Cameliard was waste, Thick with wet woods, and many a beast therein, And none or few to scare or chase the beast; So that wild dog and wolf and boar and bear Came night and day, and rooted in the fields, And wallow'd in the gardens of the King.

. . . . . And King Leodogran Groan'd for the Roman legions here again And Caesar's eagle. . . . .

He knew not whither he should turn for aid.

But--for he heard of Arthur newly crown'd, . . . . . . . . . --the King Sent to him, saying, 'Arise and help us thou!

For here between the man and beast we die.'

And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms, But heard the call and came; and Guinevere Stood by the castle walls to watch him pa.s.s; But since he neither wore on helm or shield The golden symbol of his kinglihood, But rode, a simple knight among his knights, And many of these in richer arms than he, She saw him not, or marked not, if she saw, One among many, tho' his face was bare.

But Arthur, looking downward as he past, Felt the light of her eyes into his life Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch'd His tents beside the forest. Then he drave The heathen; after, slew the beast, and fell'd The forest, letting in the sun, and made Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight And so returned.

For while he linger'd there, A doubt that ever smoulder'd in the hearts Of those great lords and barons of his realm Flashed forth and into war; for most of these, Colleaguing with a score of petty kings, Made head against him crying: "Who is he That should rule us? Who hath proven him King Uther's son?"

And, Arthur, pa.s.sing thence to battle, felt Travail, and throes and agonies of the life, Desiring to be join'd with Guinevere, And thinking as he rode: "Her father said That there between the man and beast they die.

Shall I not lift her from this land of beasts Up to my throne and side by side with me?

What happiness to reign a lonely king?

. . . . But were I join'd with her, Then might we live together as one life, And reigning with one will in everything Have power on this dark land to lighten it, And power on this dead world to make it live."

When Arthur reached a field of battle bright With pitch'd pavilions of his foe, the world Was all so clear about him that he saw The smallest rock far on the faintest hill, And even in high day the morning star.

. . . . But the Powers who walk the world, Made lightnings and great thunders over him, And dazed all eyes, till Arthur by main might, And mightier of his hands with every blow, And leading all his knighthood, threw the kings.

So like a painted battle the war stood Silenced, the living quiet as the dead, And in the heart of Arthur joy was lord.

Then quickly from the foughten field he sent . . . . . . . . . Sir Bedivere . . . . . . . . . to King Leodogran, Saying, "If I in aught have served thee well, Give me thy daughter Guinevere to wife."

Whom when he heard, Leodogran in heart Debating--"How should I that am a king, However much he holp me at my need, Give my one daughter saving to a king, And a king's son"?--lifted his voice, and call'd A h.o.a.ry man, his chamberlain, to whom He trusted all things, and of him required His counsel: "Knowest thou aught of Arthur's birth?"

Then while the King debated with himself,

. . . . . there came to Cameliard,