Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine :

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,

And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,

For idly, hour by hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,

For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,

He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
They laughed, and called him good-for-
naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone,

And e'en his memory dim,

Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.
1842.

THE TOKEN.

IT is a mere wild rosebud,

Quite sallow now, and dry,
Yet there's something wondrousin it,-
Some gleams of days gone by,
Dear sights and sounds that are to me
The very moons of memory,

And stir my heart's blood far below
Its short-lived waves of joy and woe.

Lips must fade and roses wither,

All sweet times be o'er, They only smile, and, murmuring "Thither!"

Stay with us no more:
And yet ofttimes a look or smile,
Forgotten in a kiss's while,

Years after from the dark will start,
And flash across the trembling heart.

Thou hast given me many roses,

But never one, like this, O'erfloods both sense and spirit

With such a deep, wild bliss; We must have instincts that glean up Sparse drops of this life in the cup, Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality.

Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come,

We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers

Whose fragrance fills the earth.

Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, Which blossom into hopes that cannot die,

In sunny hours like this.

All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man.

And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome,

O, mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skyey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity!

All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole :

In his wide brain the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap

O'er the weak thrones of wrong.

All thought begins in feeling, - wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified,

A moveless pyramid.

Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad

In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams

From the great heart of God.

God wills, man hopes: in common souls
Hope is but vague and undefined,

Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls

A blessing to his kind.

Never did Poesy appear

So full of heaven to me, as when

I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear

To the lives of coarsest men.

It may be glorious to write

Thoughts that shall glad the two or three

High souls, like those far stars that come in sight

Once in a century;

But better far it is to speak

One simple word, which now and then Shall waken their free nature in the weak

And friendless sons of men;

To write some earnest verse or line, Which, seeking not the praise of art, Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine

In the untutored heart.

He who doth this, in verse or prose, May be forgotten in his day,

But surely shall be crowned at last with those

Who live and speak for aye. 1842.

RHCECUS.

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: Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed

The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, rever

ence,

Infolds some germs of goodness and of right;

Else never had the eager soul, which loathes

A wisdom and a meaning which may speak

Of spiritual secrets to the ear

Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for a solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring

Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals,

Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light

And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,

As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhocus, 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,

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered

on.

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind

That murmured "Rhocus!" "T was as if the leaves,

And, while he paused bewildered, yet again

It murmured "Rhocus!" 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.

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
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of

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 beside.

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;