THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-sh.e.l.l He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a G.o.d.

THE TOKEN

It is a mere wild rosebud, Quite sallow now, and dry, Yet there's something wondrous in it, Some gleams of days gone by, Dear sights and sounds that are to me The very moons of memory, And stir my heart's blood far below Its short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Lips must fade and roses wither, All sweet times be o'er; They only smile, and, murmuring 'Thither!'

Stay with us no more: And yet ofttimes a look or smile, Forgotten in a kiss's while, Years after from the dark will start, And flash across the trembling heart.

Thou hast given me many roses, But never one, like this, O'erfloods both sense and spirit With such a deep, wild bliss; We must have instincts that glean up Spa.r.s.e drops of this life in the cup, Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality.

Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come.

Haply some chance-saved trifle May tell of this old home: As now sometimes we seem to find, In a dark crevice of the mind, Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, Hints faintly at a life before.

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned, Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe, Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard.

It was a sight for sin and wrong And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high humanity.

I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love.

G.o.d scatters love on every side Freely among his children all, And always hearts are lying open wide, Wherein some grains may fall.

There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst, unlooked for, into high-souled deeds, With wayside beauty rife.

We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of cla.s.sic Greece and Rome.

O mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole:

In his wide brain the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling,--wide In the great ma.s.s its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray, who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams From the great heart of G.o.d.

G.o.d wills, man hopes: in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined, Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear So full of heaven to me, as when I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear To the lives of coa.r.s.est men.

It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight Once in a century;--

But better far it is to speak One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine In the untutored heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day, But surely shall be crowned at last with those Who live and speak for aye.

RHOECUS

G.o.d sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence, Infolds some germs of goodness and of right; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes 10 The slothful down of pampered ignorance, Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.

There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, Points surely to the hidden springs of truth.

For, as in nature naught is made in vain, 20 But all things have within their hull of use A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritual secrets to the ear Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the n.i.g.g.ard hands of falsehood wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light 30 And earnest parables of inward lore.

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 Rhoecus, 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. 40 But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured 'Rhoecus!' 'Twas as if the leaves, Stirred by a pa.s.sing breath, had murmured it, And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured 'Rhoecus!' 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 50 To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with G.o.ds.

All naked like a G.o.ddess stood she there, And like a G.o.ddess all too beautiful To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.