 | The Comrades |  |
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The Legend of Childhood
Laus Infantium
In praise of little children I will say
God first made man, then found a better way
For woman, but His third way was the best.
Of all created things the loveliest
And most divine are children. Nothing here
Can be to us more gracious or more dear.
And though when God saw all His works were good
There was no rosy flower of babyhood,
'Twas said of children in a later day
That none could enter Heaven save such as they.
God first made man, then found a better way
For woman, but His third way was the best.
Of all created things the loveliest
And most divine are children. Nothing here
Can be to us more gracious or more dear.
And though when God saw all His works were good
There was no rosy flower of babyhood,
'Twas said of children in a later day
That none could enter Heaven save such as they.
The earth, which feels the flowering of a thorn,
Was glad, O little child, when you were born;
The earth, which thrills when skylarks scale the blue,
Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you;
Was glad, O little child, when you were born;
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Soared up itself to God's own Heaven in you;
And Heaven, which loves to lean down and to glass
Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass—
Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair,
And left, O little child, its reflex there!
Its beauty in each dewdrop on the grass—
Heaven laughed to find your face so pure and fair,
And left, O little child, its reflex there!
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Any Father
We talked of you; in happy dreamsOur hearts foretold you,
O little Blossom!
And yet how marvellous it seems
To see and hold you!
We guessed you boy, we guessed you maid,
Right glad of either;
How like, how unlike all we said,
Upon her knee there,
You lie and twit us,
O little Blossom!
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Any Mother
So sweet, so strange—so strange, so sweetBeyond expression,
O little Blossom!
To sit and feel my bosom beat
With glad possession;
For you are ours, our very own,
None other's, ours;
God made you of our two hearts alone,
As God makes flowers
Of earth and sunshine,
O little Blossom!
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A Philosopher
Yes, you may let them creep about the rug.
And stir the fire! Aha! that's bright and snug.
To think these mites—ay, nurse, unfold the screen!—
Should be as ancient as the Miocene;
That ages back beneath a palm-tree's shade
These rosy little quadrupeds have played,
Have cried for moons or mammoths, and have blacked
Their faces round the Drift Man's fire—in fact,
That ever since the articulate race began
These babes have been the joy and plague of man!
And stir the fire! Aha! that's bright and snug.
To think these mites—ay, nurse, unfold the screen!—
Should be as ancient as the Miocene;
That ages back beneath a palm-tree's shade
These rosy little quadrupeds have played,
Have cried for moons or mammoths, and have blacked
Their faces round the Drift Man's fire—in fact,
That ever since the articulate race began
These babes have been the joy and plague of man!
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Unnoticed by historian and sage,
These bright-eyed chits have been from age to age
The one supreme majority. I find
Mankind hath been their slaves, and womankind
Their worshippers; and both have lived in dread
Of time and tyrants, toiled and wept and bled,
Because of some quaint elves they called their own.
Had little ones in Egypt been unknown,
No Pharaoh would have had the power, methinks,
To pile the Pyramids or carve the Sphinx.
These bright-eyed chits have been from age to age
The one supreme majority. I find
Mankind hath been their slaves, and womankind
Their worshippers; and both have lived in dread
Of time and tyrants, toiled and wept and bled,
Because of some quaint elves they called their own.
Had little ones in Egypt been unknown,
No Pharaoh would have had the power, methinks,
To pile the Pyramids or carve the Sphinx.
Take them to bed, nurse; but before she goes
Papa must toast his little woman's toes.
Strange that such feeble hands and feet as these
Have sped the lamp-race of the centuries!
Papa must toast his little woman's toes.
Strange that such feeble hands and feet as these
Have sped the lamp-race of the centuries!
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A Poet
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
“Hence! to the woods and earn your bread!”
The woods were deep with drifted snow.
“Seek till you find where violets blow,
And bring them home,” the step-dame said.
The woods were deep with drifted snow.
“Seek till you find where violets blow,
And bring them home,” the step-dame said.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
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Weeping she wandered through the snow;
The way was lone; the wind was bleak;
Weeping she went; she could not speak—
Her little heart was choked with woe.
The way was lone; the wind was bleak;
Weeping she went; she could not speak—
Her little heart was choked with woe.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
Her own dear mother, if she'd known,
Had turned to violets in the mould;
But oh! the snow lay deep, and cold
Had frozen all the earth to stone.
Had turned to violets in the mould;
But oh! the snow lay deep, and cold
Had frozen all the earth to stone.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
Within the woods the homeless maid
Found wreaths of snow and leafless trees.
She wanders on until she sees
A great fire in a wintry glade.
Found wreaths of snow and leafless trees.
She wanders on until she sees
A great fire in a wintry glade.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
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Approach, dear child, and have no fear!
Twelve stones were lying on the ground,
And twelve strange men were sitting round
The gladsome fire as she drew near.
Twelve stones were lying on the ground,
And twelve strange men were sitting round
The gladsome fire as she drew near.
The sun, the seas, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
And one, upon the largest stone,
Who held a staff the chief appeared.
Oh, white and old was he! His beard
Into his very lap had grown.
Who held a staff the chief appeared.
Oh, white and old was he! His beard
Into his very lap had grown.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
The old chief smiled, and cried: “Soho!
What is't the little woman seeks?”
With great tears running down her cheeks,
She spoke and told him all her woe.
What is't the little woman seeks?”
With great tears running down her cheeks,
She spoke and told him all her woe.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
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“I have no violets, my dear;
My name is January,” he said;
“But March has flowers”—March bowed his head—
“Change places, Brother March; come here!”
My name is January,” he said;
“But March has flowers”—March bowed his head—
“Change places, Brother March; come here!”
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
March sat on January's seat;
The snow-drifts melted; grass was seen;
The trees exhaled a mist of green;
Soft breezes made the woodland sweet.
The snow-drifts melted; grass was seen;
The trees exhaled a mist of green;
Soft breezes made the woodland sweet.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
And violets sprang in magic store,
And strewed with purple all the glade.
Oh, happy, happy little maid,
Fill full your tattered pinafore!
And strewed with purple all the glade.
Oh, happy, happy little maid,
Fill full your tattered pinafore!
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The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
A lark piped silvery on a cloud.
“There!” March cried gaily; “run away!
What ever will your step-dame say?”
And all the Twelve laughed glad and loud.
“There!” March cried gaily; “run away!
What ever will your step-dame say?”
And all the Twelve laughed glad and loud.
The sun, the sea, the forest wild—
All nature loves a little child.
All nature loves a little child.
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Apple-Bloom and Apple
When little Osy, two years old,
Once saw the Spring sun dapple
The apple-bloom with blurs of gold,
She asked me for an apple.
Once saw the Spring sun dapple
The apple-bloom with blurs of gold,
She asked me for an apple.
“There are no apples, darling, yet;
The bloom's still white and rosy;
Wait till the harvest, then you'll get—”
“I tannot wait,” said Osy.
The bloom's still white and rosy;
Wait till the harvest, then you'll get—”
“I tannot wait,” said Osy.
I told her of the changing year,
The nipping frost, the raw gust,
The clement rain, the sunny cheer,
From April on the August.
The nipping frost, the raw gust,
The clement rain, the sunny cheer,
From April on the August.
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“So wait till Autumn paints them red,
And makes them sweet for eating!”
“No, shake them—shake them down!” she said,
With great blue eyes entreating.
And makes them sweet for eating!”
“No, shake them—shake them down!” she said,
With great blue eyes entreating.
I can't resist a mouth that pouts
And trembles, ripe for crying;
I cannot bear the first sad doubts
In large eyes so relying.
And trembles, ripe for crying;
I cannot bear the first sad doubts
In large eyes so relying.
I shook the trunk; the branches snowed
Till all the grass was whitened;
The blue jay darted down the road,
And screamed that he was frightened.
Till all the grass was whitened;
The blue jay darted down the road,
And screamed that he was frightened.
Of course I shook and shook in vain,
And Osy, standing under,
Laughed and shrugged off the blossomy rain,
Till glee was changed to wonder;
And Osy, standing under,
Laughed and shrugged off the blossomy rain,
Till glee was changed to wonder;
And wonder turned to pain and doubt;
Her eyes grew full and pleading;
Her quivering lips began to pout;
Her fists were closed for kneading;
Her eyes grew full and pleading;
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Her fists were closed for kneading;
And then there rose a long sharp cry,
As if her heart were breaking:—
“You see, my darling child,” said I,
“Apples don't grow with shaking.”
As if her heart were breaking:—
“You see, my darling child,” said I,
“Apples don't grow with shaking.”
One day when all the apple-tree
With fruit was bowed and ruddy,
Osy, with dolly on her knee,
Sat in a child's brown study.
With fruit was bowed and ruddy,
Osy, with dolly on her knee,
Sat in a child's brown study.
The west wind came with pleasant sound,
And as the leaves were turning,
An apple tumbled to the ground,
And lay there plump and burning.
And as the leaves were turning,
An apple tumbled to the ground,
And lay there plump and burning.
And Osy's face grew bright and glad,
From her dim day-dream waking—
A touch had given what could be had
Not for a world of shaking.
From her dim day-dream waking—
A touch had given what could be had
Not for a world of shaking.
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In the Corner
So often, poor wee rogue, they sent
His blithe heart into banishment,
So oft his blurred angelic face
Was wall-ward turned in dire disgrace,
His blithe heart into banishment,
So oft his blurred angelic face
Was wall-ward turned in dire disgrace,
That, moved with pity for his sake,
What does his grand-dad do but take
Palette and brush, and fill with bloom
That penal corner of the room?
What does his grand-dad do but take
Palette and brush, and fill with bloom
That penal corner of the room?
Small woodmen share the culprit's grief;
Fairies peep out from flower and leaf;
His heart the droll brown squirrel cheers,
And sets him smiling through his tears.
Fairies peep out from flower and leaf;
His heart the droll brown squirrel cheers,
And sets him smiling through his tears.
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“Grandpa,” they cried, “you spoil the child!”
More kindly wise the old artist smiled:
“Pain often hardens—have a care!
God does not leave our ‘corners’ bare.”
More kindly wise the old artist smiled:
“Pain often hardens—have a care!
God does not leave our ‘corners’ bare.”
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The Winter Sleep
When snow began she tried to make
No noise—was frugal in her mirth;
She feared her childish romps might break
The winter slumber of the Earth.
No noise—was frugal in her mirth;
She feared her childish romps might break
The winter slumber of the Earth.
When roofs shook down the thawing snow,
And snowdrops peeped—what joyous cries!
Had not dear Earth begun to throw
The clothes off, and to open eyes?
And snowdrops peeped—what joyous cries!
Had not dear Earth begun to throw
The clothes off, and to open eyes?
But when once more the snow came down,
And hoar-frost whitened every pane,
Her brows were puckered in a frown,
The change perplexed her little brain.
And hoar-frost whitened every pane,
Her brows were puckered in a frown,
The change perplexed her little brain.
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She thought and thought how this might be;
At last “Oh my, papa!” she cried;
“We thought she was awake—but she
Has only turned upon her side!”
At last “Oh my, papa!” she cried;
“We thought she was awake—but she
Has only turned upon her side!”
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An April Grief
With little breast that wildly heaved,
With streaming eyes and hair uncurled,
She sat and sobbed—as if she grieved
For all the woes of all the world.
With streaming eyes and hair uncurled,
She sat and sobbed—as if she grieved
For all the woes of all the world.
A sudden pause! She raised her head
In puzzled thought, and still a tear
Hung, like a dewdrop, as she said:
“Why was I crying, mamma dear?”
In puzzled thought, and still a tear
Hung, like a dewdrop, as she said:
“Why was I crying, mamma dear?”
“Because I took poor Pussy's part.”
Then all the woes beneath the skies
Once more convulsed that little heart
And rained from those despairing eyes!
Then all the woes beneath the skies
Once more convulsed that little heart
And rained from those despairing eyes!
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Oh, never in the coming years,
My darling, may it be your lot
To know a grief too deep for tears,
Or one that cannot be forgot!
My darling, may it be your lot
To know a grief too deep for tears,
Or one that cannot be forgot!
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The Great World
A wild adventurer, he loved to fare
On wondrous voyages from chair to chair.
He coasted wall and furniture until
He reached the Indies of his wayward will.
His quests recalled th' intrepid days of yore
When tars who woo'd the ocean hugged the shore;
When sirens sang to port and birds to lee,
And rigging brushed the blossom from the tree.
But one spring afternoon a breeze from Spain
Awoke a small Columbus in his brain;
His legs felt sturdy under him; the door,
Through which he'd never passed alone before,
Opened on marvels. Brightness, sound and scent
Called him to go and play with them. He went.
He reached the middle of the village green,
Then stopped and gazed. Great nature, what a scene!
On every side to distances untold
The grass in vast savannas round him rolled.
The cottages were leagues and leagues away.
The enormous spaces that about him lay
Seemed glad to find him little and alone.
A thousand miles up, great white clouds were blown
Across a sky as bright and clear as glass,
And here their shadows raced across the grass.
Cloud-gazing made one's little senses reel,
For all the sky seemed, like a glittering wheel,
To turn clean over.
On wondrous voyages from chair to chair.
He coasted wall and furniture until
He reached the Indies of his wayward will.
His quests recalled th' intrepid days of yore
When tars who woo'd the ocean hugged the shore;
When sirens sang to port and birds to lee,
And rigging brushed the blossom from the tree.
But one spring afternoon a breeze from Spain
Awoke a small Columbus in his brain;
His legs felt sturdy under him; the door,
Through which he'd never passed alone before,
Opened on marvels. Brightness, sound and scent
Called him to go and play with them. He went.
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Then stopped and gazed. Great nature, what a scene!
On every side to distances untold
The grass in vast savannas round him rolled.
The cottages were leagues and leagues away.
The enormous spaces that about him lay
Seemed glad to find him little and alone.
A thousand miles up, great white clouds were blown
Across a sky as bright and clear as glass,
And here their shadows raced across the grass.
Cloud-gazing made one's little senses reel,
For all the sky seemed, like a glittering wheel,
To turn clean over.
With uneasy mind,
He marked the tall trees waving in the wind.
Each tossed its mazy arms and wagged its head
So grimly that he held his breath for dread.
How had he vexed the beech, the elm, the fir?
Their dreadful voices told how vexed they were.
He thought of home, for what can harm or hurt
He marked the tall trees waving in the wind.
Each tossed its mazy arms and wagged its head
So grimly that he held his breath for dread.
How had he vexed the beech, the elm, the fir?
Their dreadful voices told how vexed they were.
The child whose fingers clutch his mother's skirt?
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But oh, the horror of those startled eyes!
Between him and that far-off cottage door
Swayed the green terror of a sycamore.
The great tree rocks above him, cries, expands,
And strives to snatch him with a hundred hands.
Oh, never till this moment had he known
How terrible it was to be alone;
Never till now been clear that he was he,
Not one with earth and air and stone and tree,
But something different and quite apart.
And now dismay has filled his little heart.
He drops upon the grass; the earth and skies
Collapse about him as he sobs and cries.
Oh joy of joys! a friend, a helper hears
His piteous wail, compassionates his tears.
A furry head is rubbed against his cheek;
Against his hair, a body soft and sleek.
It is—it is his Puss! O Pussy, hark!
The most breath-catching story you shall hear
That ever child told cat since Vyaghere,
The Tiger, sneezed the first puss in the ark.
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Can scarce trace shining cloud from shining sea.
Did Pussy laugh and tell him—who can say?—
He need not mind the skies; it was their way.
That as for size and distance, after all
The whole world was comparatively small;
That big things would grow little, far things near
As he grew old; that trees had made men fear
Ever since mother Eve plucked fruit from bough;
'Twas but a freak of theirs to mop and mow,
And catch at stars and clouds with aguish arm;
Green foolish giants they, they did no harm.
Did Pussy in her wisdom answer thus?
Strange sympathies united him and Puss
In those dim days of wonder and romance,
And sympathy projected speech perchance.
In any case, his arms he flung around
Dear Puss, and almost hugged her off the ground;
Got firm on foot; began to recognise
No tree could see him if he shut his eyes;
Set off, determined never more to roam
When once safe housed.
So Pussy led him home.
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A New Poet
I write. He sits beside my chair
And scribbles too in mute delight;
He dips his pen in charmèd air;
What is it he pretends to write?
And scribbles too in mute delight;
He dips his pen in charmèd air;
What is it he pretends to write?
He toils and toils; the paper gives
No clue to ought he thinks. What then?
His little heart is glad; he lives
The poems that he cannot pen.
No clue to ought he thinks. What then?
His little heart is glad; he lives
The poems that he cannot pen.
Strange fancies throng that baby brain.
What grave sweet looks! What earnest eyes!
He stops—reflects—and now again
His unrecording pen he plies.
What grave sweet looks! What earnest eyes!
He stops—reflects—and now again
His unrecording pen he plies.
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It seems a satire on myself—
These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,
This thought, this work! Oh, tricksy elf,
Wouldst drive thy father to despair?
These dreamy nothings scrawled in air,
This thought, this work! Oh, tricksy elf,
Wouldst drive thy father to despair?
Despair! Ah, no; the heart, the mind
Persists in hoping,—schemes and strives
That there may linger with our kind
Some memory of our little lives.
Persists in hoping,—schemes and strives
That there may linger with our kind
Some memory of our little lives.
Beneath his rock i' the early world
Smiling the naked hunter lay,
And sketched on horn the spear he hurled,
The urus which he made his prey.
Smiling the naked hunter lay,
And sketched on horn the spear he hurled,
The urus which he made his prey.
Like him I strive in hope my rhymes
May keep my name a little while.—
O child, who knows how many times
We two have made the angels smile!
May keep my name a little while.—
O child, who knows how many times
We two have made the angels smile!
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The Ladder
In our woodyard one apple-tree
Quite touched the sky, I knew;
For when the boughs swung I could see
Blue bits of heaven break through.
Quite touched the sky, I knew;
For when the boughs swung I could see
Blue bits of heaven break through.
The big red apples glittered bright
So high up in the sun,
An angel, without stooping, might
Have plucked the topmost one.
So high up in the sun,
An angel, without stooping, might
Have plucked the topmost one.
A long, green-painted ladder leant
Among the boughs;—'twas odd,
But I was sure that ladder went
Right up the tree to God.
Among the boughs;—'twas odd,
But I was sure that ladder went
Right up the tree to God.
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I longed to climb and see His place,
But then I was so young—
Just two—and what a fearful space
Divided rung from rung!
But then I was so young—
Just two—and what a fearful space
Divided rung from rung!
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The Upward Look
I cried because I was afraid.
Strange people came about the place;
They'd laid my mother in a chest,
And spread a cloth upon her face.
And then they whispered up and down;
And all of them were dressed in black;
And women that I did not know
Kissed me and said, “Poor little Jack!”
And then the great black horses came—
Their tails trailed almost on the ground—
And there were feathers on the coach,
And all the neighbours stood around.
Strange people came about the place;
They'd laid my mother in a chest,
And spread a cloth upon her face.
And then they whispered up and down;
And all of them were dressed in black;
And women that I did not know
Kissed me and said, “Poor little Jack!”
And then the great black horses came—
Their tails trailed almost on the ground—
And there were feathers on the coach,
And all the neighbours stood around.
And when the horses went away,
The house no longer seemed the same,
And I grew frightened, and I called
For Mother; but she never came,
And so I cried! But then my Aunt
Came weeping when she heard my cries;
And I was such a little thing
I looked up to her streaming eyes.
The house no longer seemed the same,
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For Mother; but she never came,
And so I cried! But then my Aunt
Came weeping when she heard my cries;
And I was such a little thing
I looked up to her streaming eyes.
I looked up to her streaming eyes!
And it has often seemed since then,
At times of threatening, doubt, distress,
That, full-grown to the life of men,
Just so have I looked up—just so
Some being of a higher sphere,
Aware of laws from me concealed,
Has downward looked and dropped a tear—
A tear of pity for the pain
That I must feel when I've outgrown
This larger childhood, and have learned
To know myself as I am known.
And it has often seemed since then,
At times of threatening, doubt, distress,
That, full-grown to the life of men,
Just so have I looked up—just so
Some being of a higher sphere,
Aware of laws from me concealed,
Has downward looked and dropped a tear—
A tear of pity for the pain
That I must feel when I've outgrown
This larger childhood, and have learned
To know myself as I am known.
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Birth and Death
She came to us in storm and snow—
The little one we held so dear—
And all the world was full of woe,
And war and famine plagued the year;
And ships were wrecked and fields were drowned.
And thousands died for lack of bread;
In such a troubled time we found
That sweet mouth to be kissed and fed.
The little one we held so dear—
And all the world was full of woe,
And war and famine plagued the year;
And ships were wrecked and fields were drowned.
And thousands died for lack of bread;
In such a troubled time we found
That sweet mouth to be kissed and fed.
But oh, we were a happy pair,
Through all the war and want and woe;
Though not a heart appeared to care,
And no one even seemed to know.
Through all the war and want and woe;
Though not a heart appeared to care,
And no one even seemed to know.
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She left us in the blithe increase
Of glowing fruit and ripening corn,
When all the nations were at peace,
And plenty held a brimming horn—
When we at last were well to do,
And life was sweet, and earth was gay;
In that glad time of cloudless blue
Our little darling passed away.
Of glowing fruit and ripening corn,
When all the nations were at peace,
And plenty held a brimming horn—
When we at last were well to do,
And life was sweet, and earth was gay;
In that glad time of cloudless blue
Our little darling passed away.
And oh, we were a wretched pair
In all the gladness and the glow;
And not a heart appeared to care,
And no one even seemed to know.
In all the gladness and the glow;
And not a heart appeared to care,
And no one even seemed to know.
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Kozma the Smith
All the fair maidens are out in the street,
Singing from dusk till the blush of the morn,—
Singing a welcome, in cadences sweet,
Unto the spring-rain, the flax, and the corn:
For the Gold Plough has passed over valley and hill,
With the Lord God holding the oxen in hand;
While St. Peter beside, with his goad, whistled shrill;
And the Mother of Christ cast the seed o'er the land.
Singing from dusk till the blush of the morn,—
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Unto the spring-rain, the flax, and the corn:
For the Gold Plough has passed over valley and hill,
With the Lord God holding the oxen in hand;
While St. Peter beside, with his goad, whistled shrill;
And the Mother of Christ cast the seed o'er the land.
And the marmot has crept from his winter sleep,
And the steppe is alive with his whistling cry;
And the rook has sailed from across the blue deep;
And the lark, from a little white cloud, fills the sky;
And the pike's sent his tail through the spongy ice;
And the swallows come flying from Paradise;
And the cricket's astir; and the bear in his den
Wakes, yawning, and feels it is Spring among men.
And the steppe is alive with his whistling cry;
And the rook has sailed from across the blue deep;
And the lark, from a little white cloud, fills the sky;
And the pike's sent his tail through the spongy ice;
And the swallows come flying from Paradise;
And the cricket's astir; and the bear in his den
Wakes, yawning, and feels it is Spring among men.
Beautiful Spring!—sing the girls in the street—
Sweet rain of the Spring! dear blue of the sky!
O rain, pour over the grandfather's wheat,
The maiden's flax, and the grandmother's rye!
O Spring, give the birch her silver chemise,
Give the noble horse-chestnut his gloves of red;
Bring safely all little birds over the seas—
All little winged souls of the babes that are dead!
Sweet rain of the Spring! dear blue of the sky!
O rain, pour over the grandfather's wheat,
The maiden's flax, and the grandmother's rye!
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Give the noble horse-chestnut his gloves of red;
Bring safely all little birds over the seas—
All little winged souls of the babes that are dead!
Oh, the village is glad 'mid the rustle of wings,
And the fragrance and murmur of growing things!
And all poor mothers with children dead
Spread the piece of white linen with crumbs of bread
Outside for their birds on the window-sill.
In the dim russet morning when all is still,
They can hear their little ones twitter and sing;
And they weep, and are solaced, and bless the Spring!
And the fragrance and murmur of growing things!
And all poor mothers with children dead
Spread the piece of white linen with crumbs of bread
Outside for their birds on the window-sill.
In the dim russet morning when all is still,
They can hear their little ones twitter and sing;
And they weep, and are solaced, and bless the Spring!
But Kozma the Smith is weary of life,
And heart-sick with thoughts of his dear dead wife,
And the little girl-babe who was born and died
On the mother's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Heart-sick is Kozma the Smith, as he stands
With a hammer and red-hot bar in his hands,
Gazing on vacancy—thinking he heard
His little one's cry in the cry of a bird.
And heart-sick with thoughts of his dear dead wife,
And the little girl-babe who was born and died
On the mother's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Heart-sick is Kozma the Smith, as he stands
With a hammer and red-hot bar in his hands,
Gazing on vacancy—thinking he heard
His little one's cry in the cry of a bird.
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And the throat of him aches, and his eyes are red,
As he spreads the linen and crumbles the bread
On the ledge of the window—then lies awake
Listening till day for his little girl's sake.
As he spreads the linen and crumbles the bread
On the ledge of the window—then lies awake
Listening till day for his little girl's sake.
But his crumbs lie untouched: day slips after day,
And never a little bird takes one away;
And never at morning, when all is still,
Does he hear a chirp on the window-sill!
And never a little bird takes one away;
And never at morning, when all is still,
Does he hear a chirp on the window-sill!
Then Kozma the Smith lifts his tear-blinded eyes,
With a cry: “What to me are the green of the grass,
The flowers and the birds, and the laugh of the skies,
If the Spring has not brought me my own little lass?”
With a cry: “What to me are the green of the grass,
The flowers and the birds, and the laugh of the skies,
If the Spring has not brought me my own little lass?”
And Kozma the Smith casts him down with a groan:
“Dear wife, dost thou lie in the dark ground alone?
Is the little one stolen? . . . It lay in its place,
All covered with flowers to its sweet waxen face,
When they beat down the nails of the coffin-lid.
Have the water-sprites found where my darling was hid
In the darkness, dear wife,—in the flowers, at thy side?”
And he thinks in dumb pain how the little one died—
Unbaptized, unanointed, an outcast from grace!
And Kozma goes forth with a haggard face,
And the light in his eyes is unearthly and wild—
For he fears the Rusálkas have taken the child.
“Dear wife, dost thou lie in the dark ground alone?
Is the little one stolen? . . . It lay in its place,
All covered with flowers to its sweet waxen face,
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Have the water-sprites found where my darling was hid
In the darkness, dear wife,—in the flowers, at thy side?”
And he thinks in dumb pain how the little one died—
Unbaptized, unanointed, an outcast from grace!
And Kozma goes forth with a haggard face,
And the light in his eyes is unearthly and wild—
For he fears the Rusálkas have taken the child.
In the dead of the night, when the pines on the hill
Stand asleep in the mist, and the valley is still;
When the pulses of being so peacefully beat,
One almost can hear the grass grow in the street;
When the hearthstone is black, and the cricket asleep,
And the dew hangs in drops on the fleece of the sheep;
When the great ruddy moon is just sinking, and shines
Through the white misty ridge of the topmost pines—
In the dead of the night Kozma wakes with a start,
And springs to the window with beating heart;
Flings it wide—gazes wildly at forest and sky—
And hears—oh, listen!—his little one's cry.
Stand asleep in the mist, and the valley is still;
When the pulses of being so peacefully beat,
One almost can hear the grass grow in the street;
When the hearthstone is black, and the cricket asleep,
And the dew hangs in drops on the fleece of the sheep;
When the great ruddy moon is just sinking, and shines
Through the white misty ridge of the topmost pines—
106
And springs to the window with beating heart;
Flings it wide—gazes wildly at forest and sky—
And hears—oh, listen!—his little one's cry.
Through the forest the great setting moon smoulders red,
And the pine-branches lean dusky crimson o'erhead;
The cold stars glimmer through,—and a long leafy sigh
Runs before him as Kozma the Smith hurries by.
On the boughs hang the thread and the fluttering rags
Which the villagers leave for the water-sprite.
With his wild gleaming eyes and blown hair Kozma speeds,
Till he hears the weird sough of the water-flags,
And sees the marsh-mist trailing ghostly and white,
And catches among the black pools in the reeds
The glint of a marsh-lamp, the light of a star.
Then he pauses and listens. The wind murmurs by;
The water-flags moan; and how faint and how far—
Oh, hearken once more!—comes the little one's cry!
The spongy marsh-mosses spirt up from his tread;
The moon has gone down in the mist, round and red;
The great stars dilate, and the blue sky grows dark,
And the weird whispering swamp glooms before him—when, hark!
From the black reedy water a bird, out of sight,
Sends a bright silvery tinkle of song through the night;
And for leagues o'er the marshes, beneath the dark sky,
From each bulrush a bird trills a silvery reply.
And the pine-branches lean dusky crimson o'erhead;
The cold stars glimmer through,—and a long leafy sigh
Runs before him as Kozma the Smith hurries by.
On the boughs hang the thread and the fluttering rags
Which the villagers leave for the water-sprite.
With his wild gleaming eyes and blown hair Kozma speeds,
Till he hears the weird sough of the water-flags,
And sees the marsh-mist trailing ghostly and white,
And catches among the black pools in the reeds
The glint of a marsh-lamp, the light of a star.
Then he pauses and listens. The wind murmurs by;
The water-flags moan; and how faint and how far—
Oh, hearken once more!—comes the little one's cry!
107
The moon has gone down in the mist, round and red;
The great stars dilate, and the blue sky grows dark,
And the weird whispering swamp glooms before him—when, hark!
From the black reedy water a bird, out of sight,
Sends a bright silvery tinkle of song through the night;
And for leagues o'er the marshes, beneath the dark sky,
From each bulrush a bird trills a silvery reply.
Then the dusk air is fluttered with flurries of wings,
And jangles of music; and now—oh, behold!—
The morass is on fire with strange stars, floating rings,
Flaming ribbons of sapphire and scarlet and gold;
And the water-flag trembles with blossoms of fire;
And the bulrush is tufted with clusters of pearls;
And the bird-charm is changed to a fairy choir—
To prattle of children and laughter of girls;
And Kozma the Smith breathes the Holy Name,
As he sees in the circles of flowers and flame
The glittering limbs and the green waving curls,
The blue eyes and white breasts, of the water-girls.
They are combing their hair with a jewelled comb,
They are plucking the brightest lilies in blow,
They are splashing each other with shiny foam,
They are tossing the water-babes to and fro;
They are laughing and singing and drifting by—
When he hears through their frolic the little one's cry.
Then Kozma the Smith, in a voice hoarse and wild—
“In the name of the Holy One, give me the child!”
And jangles of music; and now—oh, behold!—
The morass is on fire with strange stars, floating rings,
Flaming ribbons of sapphire and scarlet and gold;
And the water-flag trembles with blossoms of fire;
And the bulrush is tufted with clusters of pearls;
And the bird-charm is changed to a fairy choir—
To prattle of children and laughter of girls;
And Kozma the Smith breathes the Holy Name,
As he sees in the circles of flowers and flame
The glittering limbs and the green waving curls,
The blue eyes and white breasts, of the water-girls.
They are combing their hair with a jewelled comb,
They are plucking the brightest lilies in blow,
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They are tossing the water-babes to and fro;
They are laughing and singing and drifting by—
When he hears through their frolic the little one's cry.
Then Kozma the Smith, in a voice hoarse and wild—
“In the name of the Holy One, give me the child!”
Lo! a great silence follows that cry of despair.
The revel is hushed! Not a living thing
Draws a breath in the stillness; but Kozma's aware
That a garland of rosebuds, a tremulous ring
Of blossomy splendour, is woven and blown
O'er the lit glassy marsh by the water-girls.
And there, with the roses about her strown,
With her tiny head pillowed on emerald curls,
Floats the sweet girl-babe who was born and died
On his wife's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Oh, spring through the water-flags, clasp and redeem
Thy little one, Smith, if this be not a dream!
He has sprung: she is saved! With a low laughing moan,
“My darling!” he sobs—draws her face to his own—
When round him rings laughter, derisive and harsh,
And then,—in a flash,—all is black on the marsh!
The revel is hushed! Not a living thing
Draws a breath in the stillness; but Kozma's aware
That a garland of rosebuds, a tremulous ring
Of blossomy splendour, is woven and blown
O'er the lit glassy marsh by the water-girls.
And there, with the roses about her strown,
With her tiny head pillowed on emerald curls,
Floats the sweet girl-babe who was born and died
On his wife's cold bosom last Whitsuntide.
Oh, spring through the water-flags, clasp and redeem
Thy little one, Smith, if this be not a dream!
He has sprung: she is saved! With a low laughing moan,
“My darling!” he sobs—draws her face to his own—
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And then,—in a flash,—all is black on the marsh!
“Hilliho, hilliho!”—How the clear echoes go
Through the pine-woods, and bring back the shout, “Hilliho!”
Through the pine-woods, and bring back the shout, “Hilliho!”
'Tis the hunter halloos, and he clutches his gun
Where the swamp's eerie waters have shrunk in the sun.
Where the swamp's eerie waters have shrunk in the sun.
“Ho, comrades! be speedy, and come to me here!”—
What is it he sees that a hunter should fear?
What is it he sees that a hunter should fear?
The water-flags flutter their ribbons of green
Round the black peaty marge where the waters have been.
Round the black peaty marge where the waters have been.
What is it that lies in the flags—on its face—
And rivets the hunter's fixed gaze to the place?
And rivets the hunter's fixed gaze to the place?
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“God be thanked, you have come, friends!—The man!—he is dead!”
The water-flags flutter. With slow fearful tread
They trample the reeds where the dark horror lies—
Touch the corpse—and then turn the dead face to the skies.
The water-flags flutter. With slow fearful tread
They trample the reeds where the dark horror lies—
Touch the corpse—and then turn the dead face to the skies.
“God have mercy! 'tis Kozma the Smith! He was missed
In the Spring.—How he clutches those weeds in his fist!”
In the Spring.—How he clutches those weeds in his fist!”
“The Rusálkas are female water-spirits ------ They are generally represented under the form of beauteous maidens, with full and snow-white bosoms, and with long and slender limbs ------ Their hair is long and thick and wavy, and green as is the grass ------ Besides the full-grown Rusálkas there are little ones, having the appearance of seven-year-old girls. These are supposed, by the Russian peasants, to be the ghosts of still-born children, or such as have died before there was time to baptize them ------ If any person who hears one of them lamenting will exclaim, ‘I baptize thee in the name of the Father,’ &c., the soul of that child will be saved, and will go straight to heaven. Dead children are supposed to come back in the spring to their native village under the semblance of swallows and other small birds, and to seek by soft twittering or song to console their sorrowing parents.” See Ralston's “Songs of the Russian People,” pp. 118, 144, 213, et passim.
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The Death of Anaxagoras
From Lampsacus; at my poor house, and yours.Of him she banished now let Athens boast;
Let now th' Athenians raise to him they stoned
A statue;—Anaxagoras is dead!
To you who mourn the Master, called him friend,
Beat back th' Athenian wolves who fanged his throat,
And risked your own to save him,—Pericles—
I now unfold the manner of his end.
Beat back th' Athenian wolves who fanged his throat,
And risked your own to save him,—Pericles—
I now unfold the manner of his end.
The aged man, who found in sixty years
Scant cause for laughter, laughed before he died
And died still smiling:—Athens vexed him not!
Not he, but your Athenians, he would say,
Were banished in his exile!
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And died still smiling:—Athens vexed him not!
Not he, but your Athenians, he would say,
Were banished in his exile!
When the dawn
First glimmers white o'er Lesser Asia,
And little birds are twittering in the grass,
And all the sea lies hollow and grey with mist,
And in the streets the ancient watchmen doze,
The Master woke with cold. His feet were chill
And reft of sense; and we who watched him knew
The fever had not wholly left his brain,
For he was wandering, seeking nests of birds—
An urchin from the green Ionian town
Where he was born. We chafed his clay-cold limbs;
And so he dozed, nor dreamed, until the sun
Laughed out—broad day—and flushed the garden gods
Who bless our fruits and vines in Lampsacus.
Feeble, but sane and cheerful, he awoke
And took our hands and asked to feel the sun;
And where the ilex spreads a gracious shade
We placed him, wrapped and pillowed; and he heard
The charm of birds, the social whisper of vines,
The ripple of the blue Propontic sea.
Placid and pleased he lay;—but we were sad
To see the snowy hair and silver beard
Like withering mosses on a fallen oak,
And feel that he, whose vast philosophy
Had cast such sacred branches o'er the fields
Where Athens pastures her dull sheep, lay fallen
And never more should know the spring!
First glimmers white o'er Lesser Asia,
And little birds are twittering in the grass,
And all the sea lies hollow and grey with mist,
And in the streets the ancient watchmen doze,
The Master woke with cold. His feet were chill
And reft of sense; and we who watched him knew
The fever had not wholly left his brain,
For he was wandering, seeking nests of birds—
An urchin from the green Ionian town
Where he was born. We chafed his clay-cold limbs;
And so he dozed, nor dreamed, until the sun
Laughed out—broad day—and flushed the garden gods
Who bless our fruits and vines in Lampsacus.
Feeble, but sane and cheerful, he awoke
And took our hands and asked to feel the sun;
And where the ilex spreads a gracious shade
We placed him, wrapped and pillowed; and he heard
The charm of birds, the social whisper of vines,
The ripple of the blue Propontic sea.
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To see the snowy hair and silver beard
Like withering mosses on a fallen oak,
And feel that he, whose vast philosophy
Had cast such sacred branches o'er the fields
Where Athens pastures her dull sheep, lay fallen
And never more should know the spring!
Confess,
You too had grieved to see it, Pericles!
But Anaxagoras owned no sense of wrong;
And when we called the plagues of all your gods
On your ungrateful city, he but smiled:
“Be patient, children! Where would be the gain
Of wisdom and divine astronomy,
Could we not school our fretful minds to bear
The ills all life inherits? I can smile
To think of Athens! Were they much to blame?
Had I not slain Apollo? Plucked the beard
Of Jove himself? Poor rabble, who have yet
Outgrown so little the green grasshoppers
From whom they boast descent,—are they to blame?
How could they dream,—how credit even when taught—
The sun a red-hot iron ball, in bulk
Not less than Peloponnesus? How believe
The moon, no silver goddess girt for chace,
But earth and stones, with caverns, hills, and vales?
Poor grasshoppers! who deem the gods absorbed
In all their babble, shrilling in the grass,
What wonder if they rage, should one but hint
That thunder and lightning, born of clashing clouds,
Might happen even with Jove in pleasant mood,—
Not thinking of Athenians at all!”
He paused; and blowing softly from the sea,
You too had grieved to see it, Pericles!
But Anaxagoras owned no sense of wrong;
And when we called the plagues of all your gods
On your ungrateful city, he but smiled:
“Be patient, children! Where would be the gain
Of wisdom and divine astronomy,
Could we not school our fretful minds to bear
The ills all life inherits? I can smile
To think of Athens! Were they much to blame?
Had I not slain Apollo? Plucked the beard
Of Jove himself? Poor rabble, who have yet
Outgrown so little the green grasshoppers
From whom they boast descent,—are they to blame?
How could they dream,—how credit even when taught—
The sun a red-hot iron ball, in bulk
Not less than Peloponnesus? How believe
The moon, no silver goddess girt for chace,
But earth and stones, with caverns, hills, and vales?
114
In all their babble, shrilling in the grass,
What wonder if they rage, should one but hint
That thunder and lightning, born of clashing clouds,
Might happen even with Jove in pleasant mood,—
Not thinking of Athenians at all!”
The fresh wind shook the sibilant ilex-leaves;
And lying in the shadow, all his mind
O'ershaded by our grief, once more he spoke:—
“Let not your hearts be troubled! All my days
Hath all my care been fixed on this vast Blue
So still above us; now my days are done,
Let It have care of me! Be patient; meek;
Not puffed with doctrine! Nothing can be known;
Nought grasped for certain; sense is circumscribed;
The intellect is weak; and life is short!”
He ceased and mused a little, while we wept.
“And yet be nowise downcast; seek, pursue;
The lover's rapture and the sage's gain
Lie in attainment less than in approach.
Look forward to the time which is to come!
All things are mutable; and change alone
115
Are drifting from the earth like morning mist;
The days are surely at the doors when men
Shall see but human actions in the world!
Yea, even these hills of Lampsacus shall be
The isles of some new sea, if time not fail!”
And now the reverend fathers of our town
Had heard the Master's end was very near,
And came to do him homage at the close,
And ask what wish of his they might fulfil.
But he, divining that they thought his heart
Might yearn to Athens for a resting-place,
Said gently: “Nay, from everywhere the way
To that dark land you wot of is the same.
I feel no care; I have no wish. The Greeks
Will never quite forget my Pericles,
And when they think of him will say of me,
'Twas Anaxagoras taught him!”
Had heard the Master's end was very near,
And came to do him homage at the close,
And ask what wish of his they might fulfil.
But he, divining that they thought his heart
Might yearn to Athens for a resting-place,
Said gently: “Nay, from everywhere the way
To that dark land you wot of is the same.
I feel no care; I have no wish. The Greeks
Will never quite forget my Pericles,
And when they think of him will say of me,
'Twas Anaxagoras taught him!”
Loath to go,
No kindly office done, yet once again
The reverend fathers pressed him for a wish.
Then laughed the Master: “Nay, if still you urge,
And since 'twere churlish to reject goodwill,
I pray you, every year when time brings back
The month in which I left you, let the boys—
All boys and girls in this your happy town—
For that one month be free of task and school.”
He lay back smiling, and the reverend men
No kindly office done, yet once again
The reverend fathers pressed him for a wish.
Then laughed the Master: “Nay, if still you urge,
And since 'twere churlish to reject goodwill,
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The month in which I left you, let the boys—
All boys and girls in this your happy town—
For that one month be free of task and school.”
Departed, heavy at heart. He spoke no more,
But haply musing on his truant days,
Passed from us, and was smiling when he died.
From Lampsacus thus wrote to Pericles
Agis the Lemnian. How the Master's words,
Wherein he spoke of change unchangeable,
Hold good for things of moment, ill for small!
For lo! six hundred fateful years have sped
And Greece is but a Roman province now,
Whereas through these six centuries, year by year
When summer and the sun brought back the time,
The lads and lasses, free of school and task,
Have held their revelry in Lampsacus,—
A fact so ripe with grave moralities,
That I, Diogenes, have deemed it sit
To note in my De Vita et Moribus.
“Lampsacum postea profectus, illic diem suum obiit; ubi rogantibus eum principibus civitatis, Numquid fieri mandaret, jussisse ferunt ut pueri quotannis quo mense defecisset ludere permitterentur, servarique et hodie consuetudinem.” —Diog. Laert., De Vita Philosoph.; Anaxagoras.
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The God and the Schoolboy
Throughout the land and sea from ancient days
The wonder had been rumoured, that the god
Born on the radiant hills i' the dazzle of dawn—
Asklepios—healed the sick and raised the dead.
The world gave credence gladly. Human faith
With human anguish grew; and, doubtless, God
Was pitiful in heaven, when unaware
Of Whom they sought, men called Asklepios.
The wonder had been rumoured, that the god
Born on the radiant hills i' the dazzle of dawn—
Asklepios—healed the sick and raised the dead.
The world gave credence gladly. Human faith
With human anguish grew; and, doubtless, God
Was pitiful in heaven, when unaware
Of Whom they sought, men called Asklepios.
Thus, four-and-twenty centuries ago,
At Epidaurus, on that rocky point
Washed north and south with violet sea, the sick
Dropped sails. Beyond the cornfields, olive-groves
And hamlets of the Dusty-feet—for so
Our townsmen named the rustic folk who tilled
The sweet brown earth 'twixt mountain-cirque and sea—
A green gorge opened on the beautiful
Still valley in the sunned hills' flowery heart,
Where, throned on gold and ivory, the god—
Chryselephantine, mighty-bearded, ringed
With golden head-rays—held his knotty staff
In one hand, and in one his serpent, wreathed
In shining coils, while near his footstool lay
The first dumb friend man found among the brute.
At Epidaurus, on that rocky point
Washed north and south with violet sea, the sick
Dropped sails. Beyond the cornfields, olive-groves
And hamlets of the Dusty-feet—for so
118
The sweet brown earth 'twixt mountain-cirque and sea—
A green gorge opened on the beautiful
Still valley in the sunned hills' flowery heart,
Where, throned on gold and ivory, the god—
Chryselephantine, mighty-bearded, ringed
With golden head-rays—held his knotty staff
In one hand, and in one his serpent, wreathed
In shining coils, while near his footstool lay
The first dumb friend man found among the brute.
Oh, marvellous beneath those purple peaks
Glittered the long white marble terrace-walls,
The pillared aisles, the gardens of the god,
The altars white, and white immortal shapes
Half-seen in fragrant bowers where pine and plane
Assuaged with slumberous shade the blaze of noon.
Glittered the long white marble terrace-walls,
The pillared aisles, the gardens of the god,
The altars white, and white immortal shapes
Half-seen in fragrant bowers where pine and plane
Assuaged with slumberous shade the blaze of noon.
And hither out of furthest lands and isles
Amid remote dim sea-ways came the blind,
The dumb, the deaf, the palsied, scald, and maimed—
All loathsome shapes of pain and broken strength
And hopeless wasting—if perchance the god
Might heal their stricken bodies.
Amid remote dim sea-ways came the blind,
The dumb, the deaf, the palsied, scald, and maimed—
All loathsome shapes of pain and broken strength
119
Might heal their stricken bodies.
Shafts of stone
Bore of the midnight vision and the cure
Full many a marvellous record. One who came
From far green-gardened Lampsacus the god
Had graciously made whole; from Halike—
A town whereof none now in all the world
Aught knoweth save the graven name—came one;
And one from cold Torone in the north,
From joyous Mytilene one, and one
From that Hermione, whence Hades-ward
So short the downward way that never coin
Is laid upon the dead man's tongue to pay
The ferry of shadows.
Bore of the midnight vision and the cure
Full many a marvellous record. One who came
From far green-gardened Lampsacus the god
Had graciously made whole; from Halike—
A town whereof none now in all the world
Aught knoweth save the graven name—came one;
And one from cold Torone in the north,
From joyous Mytilene one, and one
From that Hermione, whence Hades-ward
So short the downward way that never coin
Is laid upon the dead man's tongue to pay
The ferry of shadows.
But within the shrine
Hung costly gifts of men made glad to live—
Great vases, gems and mirrors; jewelled eyes,
Fingers of silver, arms and legs of gold;
Rich models of invaluable parts,
And precious images of fleshly ills
From which no quittance were too highly priced;
And, mixed with these, rude gifts of grateful hearts
Whose poverty was not ashamed to give.
Hung costly gifts of men made glad to live—
Great vases, gems and mirrors; jewelled eyes,
Fingers of silver, arms and legs of gold;
Rich models of invaluable parts,
And precious images of fleshly ills
From which no quittance were too highly priced;
120
Whose poverty was not ashamed to give.
Upon a time, among the folk who sought
Surcease of suffering from Asklepios,
Was brought a schoolboy from the white-walled town
Upon the rocky point—Euphanes, frail,
And fever-flushed, and weak with grievous pain;
And as the lad, beneath the clement stars,
Lay wandering in his mind, and dreamed perchance
Of sailing little triremes on the shore,
Or making, it might be, a locust-cage
With reeds and stalks of asphodel beneath
The trellised vines, it seemed as though the god
Stood by him in the holy night and spoke:—
“What wilt thou give me, little playfellow,
If I shall cure thy sickness?” And the lad,
Thinking what pleasure schoolboys have in these,
Replied: “I'll give thee my ten marbles, god!”
Asklepios laughed, right gladdened with the gift,
And said: “Then, truly, I will make thee well!”
And lo! when morning whitened on the hills,
And in the valley's dusk the sacred cock
Clapped wings and sang, the urchin went forth whole!
Full four-and-twenty centuries ago
Euphanes saw the god; and yesterday
The pillar bearing record of the cure
Was dug from wreck of war and drift of years.
“Ten marbles! quoth the child. Asklepios laughed;
But on the morrow forth the lad went whole.”
Thus closely had the Greek in ancient times—
Through some prophetic prompting of pure love
God's unfulfilled events divining—drawn
Man's heart unto the human heart in God.
Surcease of suffering from Asklepios,
Was brought a schoolboy from the white-walled town
Upon the rocky point—Euphanes, frail,
And fever-flushed, and weak with grievous pain;
And as the lad, beneath the clement stars,
Lay wandering in his mind, and dreamed perchance
Of sailing little triremes on the shore,
Or making, it might be, a locust-cage
With reeds and stalks of asphodel beneath
The trellised vines, it seemed as though the god
Stood by him in the holy night and spoke:—
“What wilt thou give me, little playfellow,
If I shall cure thy sickness?” And the lad,
Thinking what pleasure schoolboys have in these,
Replied: “I'll give thee my ten marbles, god!”
Asklepios laughed, right gladdened with the gift,
And said: “Then, truly, I will make thee well!”
And lo! when morning whitened on the hills,
And in the valley's dusk the sacred cock
Clapped wings and sang, the urchin went forth whole!
121
Euphanes saw the god; and yesterday
The pillar bearing record of the cure
Was dug from wreck of war and drift of years.
“Ten marbles! quoth the child. Asklepios laughed;
But on the morrow forth the lad went whole.”
Thus closely had the Greek in ancient times—
Through some prophetic prompting of pure love
God's unfulfilled events divining—drawn
Man's heart unto the human heart in God.
122
Suspirium
These little shoes!—How proud she was of these!Can you forget how, sitting on your knees,
She used to prattle volubly, and raise
Her tiny feet to win your wondering praise?
Was life too rough for feet so softly shod,
That now she walks in Paradise with God,
Leaving but these—whereon to dote and muse—
These little shoes?
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