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He saw the mob's derision,
And took it kindly, too,
And when an epithet was flung,
A coarser back he threw;
But under all the masking
Of a brute, unseemly part,
I looked, and saw a wounded soul
And a godlike, breaking heart.
And back of the elfin music,
The burlesque, clownish play,
I knew a wail that the weird pipes made,
A look that was far away
into some far heaven
Whence a soul had fallen down;
But the mob saw only the grotesque beast
And the antics of the clown.
For scant-flung pence he paid them
With mirth and elfin play,
Till, tired for a time of his antics queer,
They passed and went their way;
Then there in the empty market
He ate his scanty crust,
And, tired face turned to heaven, down
He laid him in the dust.
And over his wild, strange features
A softer light there fell,
And on his worn, earth-driven heart
A peace ineffable.
And the moon rose over the market,
But Pan the beast was dead;
While Pan the god lay silent there,
With his strange, distorted head.
And the people, when they found him,
Stood still with awesome fear.
No more they saw the beast's rude hoof,
The furtive, clownish leer;
But the lightest in that audience
Went silent from the place,
For they knew the look of a god released
That shone from his dead face.
BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does Love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair:
When didst learn a heart to win?
Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
“Oh!” the rosy lips reply,
“I can't tell you if I try!
'Tis so long I can't remember;
Ask some younger miss than I!”
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire?
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?
Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face!
“Ah!” the wise old lips reply,
“Youth may pass and strength may die;
But of Love I can't foretoken;
Ask some older Sage than I!”
The groping spires have lost the sky,
That reach from Termonde town; There are no bells to travel by,
The minster chimes are down.
It's forth we must, alone, alone,
And try to find the way;
The bells that we have always known,
War broke their hearts to-day.
They used to call the morning
Along the gilded street,
And then their rhymes were laughter,
And all their notes were sweet.
I heard them stumble down the air
Like seraphim betrayed; God must have heard their broken prayer
That made my soul afraid.