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, long 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 firstborn brother as a god.

THE TOKEN.

Ir is a mere wild rosebud,

Quite sallow now, and dry,

Yet there's something wondrous in it, —
Some gleams of days gone by,—
Dear sights and sounds that are to me
The fingerposts 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,

Haply some chance-saved trifle

May tell of this old home :

As now sometimes we seem to find,

In a dark crevice of the mind,

Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, Hints faintly at a life before.

AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.

He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own.

And, when he read, they forward leaned,
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears,

His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned
From humble smiles and tears.

Slowly there grew a tender awe,

Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard,