66

And, while he paused bewildered, yet again
It murmured "Rhocus!" softer than a breeze.
He started and beheld with dizzy eyes

50

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 shame.
'Rhœcus, I am the Dryad of this tree,"

60

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; 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 joy it shall be thine."

Then Rhocus, with a flutter at the heart, 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." After a little pause she said again,

70

But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, "I give it, Rhocus, though a perilous gift; An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see

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.

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, And all along unto the city's gate

Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he

walked,

80

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,

90

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.

100

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 Rhocus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, "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 Rhocus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded

bee,

And Rhocus, tracking him with angry eyes,
Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly
Against the red disk 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,
Ran madly through the city and the gate,
And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long
shade,

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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,

And, listening fearfully, he heard once more
The low voice murmur Rhocus!" close at

hand:

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Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.

Then sighed the voice, "O Rhocus! nevermore 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,

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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.
Farewell! for thou canst never see me

more."

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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 “Never

more!"

And Rhocus after heard no other sound,
Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, 150
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.

1843.

160

James Russell Lowell.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

MORNING, evening, noon and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, “ Praise God!"

∞