truth

Grows but more lovely 'neath the beaks and claws

Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall

In all the throbbing exultations share That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all

The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits, Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds

That veil the future, showing them the end,

Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth,

Girding the temples like a wreath of

stars.

This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel,

Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts

Fall on me like the silent flakes of snow On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus: But, oh, thought far more blissful, they can rend

This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a

star!

Unleash thy crouching thunders now,

O Jove!

Free this high heart, which, a poor captive long,

Doth knock to be let forth, this heart which still,

In its invincible manhood, overtops
Thy puny godship, as this mountain doth
The pines that moss its roots. O, even

now,

While from my peak of suffering I look down,

Beholding with a far-spread gush of hope

The sunrise of that Beauty, in whose face,

Shone all around with love, no man shall look

But straightway like a god he be uplift Unto the throne long empty for his sake, And clearly oft foreshadowed in brave dreams

By his free inward nature, which nor thou,

Nor any anarch after thee, can bind From working its great doom, -now,

now set free This essence, not to die, but to become

haunt

The palaces of tyrants, to scare off, With its grim eyes and fearful whisperings

And hideous sense of utter loneliness, All hope of safety, all desire of peace, All but the loathed forefeeling of blank death,

Part of that spirit which doth ever brood In patient calm on the unpilfered nest Of inan's deep heart, till mighty thoughts grow fledged

To sail with darkening shadow o'er the world,

Filling with dread such souls as dare not trust

In the unfailing energy of Good, Until they swoop, and their pale quarry make

Of some o'erbloated wrong,

that spirit which Scatters great hopes in the seed-field of

man,

Like acorns among grain, to grow and be A roof for freedom in all coming time!

But no, this cannot be; for ages yet, In solitude unbroken, shall I hear The angry Caspian to the Euxine shout, And Euxine answer with a muffled roar, On either side storming the giant walls Of Caucasus with leagues of climbing foam

(Less, from my height, than flakes of downy snow),

That draw back baffled but to hurl again, Snatched up in wrath and horrible turmoil,

Mountain on mountain, as the Titans erst,

My brethren, scaling the high seat of Jove,

Heaved Pelion upon Ossa's shoulders broad

In vain emprise. The moon will come

and go

Having two faces, as some images Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill;

But one heart lies beneath, and that is good,

As are all hearts, when we explore their depths.

Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou ar but type

Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through love:

Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart

Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left;

wise, and love

And patience which at last shall over

come.

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-shell

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,

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
Sparse 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.

I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence

For beauty, truth, and love.

God 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,

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 God.

God wills, man hopes: in common souls

Hope is but vague and undefined,

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 classic Greece and Rome.

O, mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high,

rolls

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 Rhocus, 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 admir

ing 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.