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 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 Some comrades who were playing at the dice,

He joined them, and forgot all else be side.

Shalt thou behold me or by day or night,

Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love

More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger,

And sent'st him back to me with bruised 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 groaned aloud,

And cried, Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more !"

"Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is 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 murmured
"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 gathered 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, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze :

Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth.

THE FALCON.

I KNOW a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine:

WHETHER the idle prisoner through his grate Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small,

Which, having colonized its rift i' the wall,

Takes its free risk of good or evil fate, And, from the sky's just helmet draws its lot

Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot;

Whether the closer captive of a creed, Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff,

Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh,

And feels in vain his crumpled pinions breed ;

Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark,

With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark

Sink northward slowly, thou alone seem'st good,

Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire

A REQUIEM.

Ay, pale and silent maiden,

Cold as thou liest there, Thine was the sunniest nature That ever drew the air, The wildest and most wayward, And yet so gently kind, Thou seemedst but to body A breath of summer wind.

Into the eternal shadow

That girds our life around, Into the infinite silence

Wherewith Death's shore is bound, Thou hast gone forth, beloved!

And I were mean to weep,
That thou has left Life's shallows,
And dost possess the Deep.

Thou liest low and silent,

Thy heart is cold and still, Thine eyes are shut forever,

And Death hath had his will; He loved and would have taken, I loved and would have kept,

We strove, and he was stronger, And I have never wept.

Let him possess thy body,

Thy soul is still with me, More sunny and more gladsome Than it was wont to be: Thy body was a fetter

That bound me to the flesh, Thank God that it is broken, And now I live afresh !

Now I can see thee clearly;
The dusky cloud of clay,
That hid thy starry spirit,

Is rent and blown away:
To earth I give thy body,
Thy spirit to the sky,

I saw its bright wings growing, And knew that thou must fly.

Now I can love thee truly,
For nothing comes between
The senses and the spirit,
The seen and the unseen;
Lifts the eternal shadow,
The silence bursts apart,
And the soul's boundless future
Is present in my heart.

A PARABLE.

WORN and footsore was the Prophet,
When he gained the holy hill;
"God has left the earth," he murmured,
"Here his presence lingers still.

"God of all the olden prophets,
Wilt thou speak with men no more?
Have I not as truly served thee
As thy chosen ones of yore?

"Hear me, guider of my fathers,
Lo! a humble heart is mine;
By thy mercy I beseech thee

Grant thy servant but a sign !"

Bowing then his head, he listened
For an answer to his prayer;
No loud burst of thunder followed,

Not a murmur stirred the air :

But the tuft of moss before him
Opened while he waited yet,
And, from out the rock's hard bosom,
Sprang a tender violet.

"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet;

"Hard of heart and blind was I, Looking to the holy mountain For the gift of prophecy.

"Still thou speakest with thy children Freely as in eld sublime ; Humbleness, and love, and patience, Still give empire over time.

"Had I trusted in my nature, And had faith in lowly things, Thou thyself wouldst then have sought

me,

And set free my spirit's wings.

"But I looked for signs and wonders,
That o'er men should give me sway;
Thirsting to be more than mortal,
I was even less than clay.

"Ere I entered on my journey,
As I girt my loins to start,
Ran to me my little daughter,

The beloved of my heart;

"In her hand she held a flower, Like to this as like may be, Which, beside my very threshold, She had plucked and brought to me." 1842.

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,

But whence came that ray? We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought Rather to name our high successes so. Only the instincts of great soulsare Fate, And have predestined sway: all other 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 beyond

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,

Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought

Had trampled out all softness from their brows,

And ploughed rough furrows there before their time,

For other crop than such as homebred Peace

Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth.

Care, not of self, but of the commonweal,

Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead

A look of patient power and iron will, And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint

Of the plain weapons girded at their sides.

The younger had an aspect of command,

(Though he despised such), were it only made