dice,

side.

goal."

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 Rhocus 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 Rhocus 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

The dice were rattling at the mer

Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disk of the setting sun, And instantly the blood sank from his heart,

As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth,

Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade,

By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim,

Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall.

Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree,

And, listening fearfully, he heard once

more

The low voice murmur "Rhocus!" close at hand:

Whereat he looked around him, but could

see

Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.

Then sighed the voice, "O Rhocus!

nevermore

The winds not better love to pilot
A cloud with molten gold o'errun,
Than him, a little burning islet,
A star above the coming sun.
For with a lark's heart he doth tower,
By a glorious upward instinct drawn ;
No bee nestles deeper in the flower

Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.
No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,
Shudders to see him overhead;
The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth
To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.

Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver, For still between them and the sky The falcon Truth hangs poised forever And marks them with his vengeful eye.

to sever,

And for himself find out the way divine; He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains,

He never earned the struggle's priceless gains.

O, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor,

Lifelong we build these human natures up

Into a temple fit for Freedom's shrine, And Trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.

A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN. WE see but half the causes of our deeds, Seeking them wholly in the outer life, And heedless of the encircling spiritworld,

Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us

All germs of pure and world-wide pur

poses.

From one stage of our being to the next We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge, The momentary work of unseen hands, Which crumbles down behind us; looking back,

We see the other shore, the gulf between, And, marvelling how we won to where we stand,

Content ourselves to call the builder Chance.

We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall, Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth

Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb,

Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found

At last a spirit meet to be the womb From which it might be born to bless

mankind,

Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years,

And waiting but one ray of sunlight

more

To blossom fully.

But whence came that ray? We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so. Only the instincts of great souls are Fate,

things,

Except by leave of us, could never be.
For Destiny is but the breath of God
Still moving in us, the last fragment left
Of our unfallen nature, waking oft
Within our thought, to beckon us be-
yond

The narrow circle of the seen and known,
And always tending to a noble end,
As all things must that overrule the soul,
And for a space unseat the helmsman,
Will.

The fate of England and of freedom once Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man:

One step of his, and the great dial-hand, That marks the destined progress of the world

In the eternal round from wisdom on To higher wisdom, had been made to pause

A hundred years. That step he did not take,

He
And lived to make his simple oaken chair
More terrible and soberly august,
More full of majesty than any throne,
Before or after, of a British king.

knew not why, nor we, but only
God, -

Upon the pier stood two stern-visaged

A noble purpose to a noble end, Although it be the gallows or the block? 'T is only Falsehood that doth ever need These outward shows of gain to bolster her.

Be it we prove the weaker with our swords;

Truth only needs to be for once spoke out,

And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm,

As makes men's memories her joyous slaves,

And clings around the soul, as the sky clings

Round the mute earth, forever beautiful,

And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth More all-embracingly divine and clear: Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is like

A star new-born, that drops into its place,

And which, once circling in its placid round,

new men;