| |
| 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. | 5 |
| Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed | |
| 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 | 10 |
| The slothful down of pampered ignorance, | |
| Found in it even a moment’s fitful rest. * * * * * | |
| Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, | |
| As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still | |
| As the immortal freshness of that grace | 15 |
| Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. | |
| |
| A youth named Rhœcus, wandering in the wood, | |
| Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall; | |
| And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, | |
| He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, | 20 |
| And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. | |
| But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind | |
| That murmured “Rhœcus!”—’T was as if the leaves, | |
| Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it; | |
| And, while he paused bewildered, yet again | 25 |
| It murmured “Rhœcus!” softer than a breeze. | |
| He started and beheld with dizzy eyes | |
| What seemed the substance of a happy dream | |
| Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow | |
| Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. | 30 |
| It seemed 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 | 35 |
| To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. | |
| “Rhœcus, I am the dryad of this tree—” | |
| Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words, | |
| Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew— | |
| “And with it I am doomed to live and die; | 40 |
| 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 heart it shall be thine.” | |
| |
| Then Rhœcus, with a flutter at the heart, | 45 |
| Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, | |
| Answered: “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.” | 50 |
| After a little pause she said again, | |
| But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, | |
| “I give it, Rhœcus, though a perilous gift; | |
| An hour before the sunset meet me here.” | |
| And straightway there was nothing he could see | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| To be the guerdon of a daring heart. | |
| So Rhœcus 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, | 70 |
| 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 Rhœcus had a faithful heart enough, | |
| But one that in the present dwelt too much, | 75 |
| 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 | 80 |
| Some comrades who were playing at the dice, | |
| He joined them and forgot all else beside. | |
| |
| The dice was rattling at the merriest, | |
| And Rhœcus, who had met but sorry luck, | |
| Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, | 85 |
| When through the room there hummed a yellow bee | |
| That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs, | |
| As if to light. And Rhœcus laughed and said, | |
| Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, | |
| “By Venus! does he take me for a rose?” | 90 |
| And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. | |
| But still the bee came back, and thrice again | |
| Rhœcus did beat him off with growing wrath. | |
| Then through the window flew the wounded bee; | |
| And Rhœcus, tracking him with angry eyes, | 95 |
| 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 turned, and rushing forth, | 100 |
| 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 well-nigh unto the city’s wall. | |
| |
| Quite spent and out of breath, he reached the tree; | 105 |
| And, listening fearfully, he heard once more | |
| The low voice murmur “Rhœcus!” close at hand; | |
| Whereat he looked around him, but could see | |
| Nought but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. | |
| Then sighed the voice: “O Rhœcus! nevermore | 110 |
| 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 | |
| Filled up with nectar any mortal heart; | |
| But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, | 115 |
| 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. | 120 |
| Farewell! for thou canst never see me more.” | |
| |
| Then Rhœcus 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, | 125 |
| 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 Rhœcus after heard no other sound, | 130 |
| 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, | 135 |
| 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; | 140 |
| But from that eve he was alone on earth. | |
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