Verse > Anthologies > The World’s Best Poetry > Vol. VI. Fancy: Sentiment
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Bliss Carman, et al., eds.  The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VI. Fancy.  1904.
 
Poems of Fancy: III. Mythical: Mystical: Legendary
Rhœcus
James Russell Lowell (1819–1891)
 
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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