THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS. THERE came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow. He made a lyre, and drew therefrom Music so strange and rich, That all men loved to hear, and some But King Admetus, one who had 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, long hour after hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower. It seemed the loveliness of things For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse. Men granted that his speech was wise, 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 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 wondrous in it,- Dear sights and sounds that are to me The finger-posts 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, 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 Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality. Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in this 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. |