JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Born at Cambridge, Mass: 1819

RHECUS.

GOD 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 sway'd
The life of man, and given it to grasp
The master-key of knowledge-reverence,
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right;
Else never had the eager soul, which loathes
The slothful down of pamper'd 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 coin'd,
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,
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 fashion'd for a solace to itself,

To make its inspirations suit its creed,

And from the niggard 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 And earnest parables of inward lore.

Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,

As full of freedom, 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 propp'd its gray trunk with admiring care,
And with a thoughtless footstep loiter'd on.
But, as he turn'd, he heard a voice behind

That murmur'd—“ Rhœcus!" "Twas as if the leaves,
Stirr'd by a passing breath, had murmur'd it;
And, while he paused bewilder'd, yet again

It murmur'd-" Rhocus!" softer than a breeze.
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes

What seem'd the substance of a happy dream
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.
It seem'd a woman's shape, yet all 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.
Rhoecus! I am the Dryad of this tree'

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Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words,
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew-
“And with it I am doom'd 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 Rhocus with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, Answer'd-"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 spirit'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 bourne
Of likelihood, but reverently deem'd
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 walk'd;
The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont,
And he could scarce believe he had not wings,—
Such sunshine seem'd 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,

Deem'd it the world, and never look'd 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 laugh'd in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there humm'd a yellow bee That buzz'd about his ear with down-dropp'd legs, As if to light. And Rhocus laugh'd and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss,

"By Venus! does he take me for a rose?”
And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand,
But still the bee came back, and thrice again,
Rhocus did beat him off with growing wrath.
Then through the window flew the wounded bee;
And Rhocus, tracking him with angry eyes,
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly
Against the red disc of the setting sun,-
And instantly the blood sank from his heart,
As if its very walls had caved away.
Without a word he turn'd, and rushing forth,
Ran madly through the city and the gate,

And o'er the plain, which now the woods' long shade,
By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim,
Darken'd well-nigh unto the city's wall.

Quite spent and out of breath, he reach'd the tree; And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur-" Rhocus!" close at hand: Whereat he look'd around him, but could see Nought but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sigh'd the voice O, Rhocus! never more Shalt thou behold me, or by day or night,

Me, who would fain have blest thee with a love
More ripe and bounteous than ever yet
Fill'd up with nectar any mortal heart;
But thou didst scorn my humble messenger,

And sent'st him back to me with bruisèd wings.
We spirits only show to gentle eyes,—

We ever ask an undivided love;

And he who scorns the least of Nature's works
Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all.
Farewell! for thou canst never see me more."

Then Rhocus beat his breast, and groan'd aloud, And cried-" Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!" "Alas!" the voice return'd-" 'tis 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 murmur'd "Nevermore!"
And Rhocus 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 gather'd 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,
Deepen'd, and on his forehead smote the breeze;
Beauty was all around him, and delight;
But from that eve he was alone on earth.

THE FOUNTAIN.

INTO the sunshine,
Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night;

Into the moonlight,
Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like,

When the winds blow;

Into the starlight,

Rushing in spray,-
Happy at midnight

Happy by day ;—

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery,
Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary ;—

Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best,

Upward or downward,
Motion thy rest;—