There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, Which, like the hazle twig, in faithful hands, 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 Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As the immortal freshness of that grace 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, But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind What seemed the substance of a happy dream To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. Then Rhocus, with a flutter at the heart, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, And not a sound came to his straining ears And far away upon an emerald slope 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, Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, Young Rhœcus 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, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. Some comrades who were playing at the dice, The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhocus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhacus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, 66 By Venus! does he take me for a rose ? " 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, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disc of the setting sun, |