THE TOILING OF FELIX A LEGEND ON A NEW SAYING OF JESUS

Hear a word that Jesus spake Nineteen hundred years ago, Where the crimson lilies blow Round the blue Tiberian lake: There the bread of life He brake, Through the fields of harvest walking With His lowly comrades, talking Of the secret thoughts that feed Weary souls in time of need. Art thou hungry? Come and take; Hear the word that Jesus spake! 'Tis the sacrament of labour, bread and wine divinely blest; Friendship's food and sweet refreshment, strength and courage, joy and rest.

But this word the Master said Long ago and far away, Silent and forgotten lay Buried with the silent dead, Where the sands of Egypt spread Sea-like, tawny billows heaping Over ancient cities sleeping, While the River Nile between Rolls its summer flood of green Rolls its autumn flood of red: There the word the Master said, Written on a frail papyrus, wrinkled, scorched by fire, and torn, Hidden by God's hand was waiting for its resurrection morn.

Now at last the buried word By the delving spade is found, Sleeping in the quiet ground. Now the call of life is heard: Rise again, and like a bird, Fly abroad on wings of gladness Through the darkness and the sadness, Of the toiling age, and sing Sweeter than the voice of Spring, Till the hearts of men are stirred By the music of the word,— Gospel for the heavy-laden, answer to the labourer's cry: “Raise the stone, and thou shall find me; cleave the wood and there am I.”

Brother-men who look for Jesus, long to see Him close and clear, Hearken to the tale of Felix, how he found the Master near.

Born in Egypt, 'neath the shadow of the crumbling gods of night, He forsook the ancient darkness, turned his young heart toward the Light.

Seeking Christ, in vain he waited for the vision of the Lord; Vainly pondered many volumes where the creeds of men were stored;

Vainly shut himself in silence, keeping vigil night and day; Vainly haunted shrines and churches where the Christians came to pray.

One by one he dropped the duties of the common life of care, Broke the human ties that bound him, laid his spirit waste and bare,

Hoping that the Lord would enter that deserted dwelling-place, And reward the loss of all things with the vision of His face.

Still the blessed vision tarried; still the light was unrevealed; Still the Master, dim and distant, kept His countenance concealed.

Fainter grew the hope of finding, wearier grew the fruitless quest; Prayer and penitence and fasting gave no comfort, brought no rest.

Lingering in the darkened temple, ere the lamp of faith went out, Felix knelt before the altar, lonely, sad, and full of doubt.

“Hear me, O my Lord and Master,” from the altar-step he cried, “Let my one desire be granted, let my hope be satisfied!

“Only once I long to see Thee, in the fulness of Thy grace: Break the clouds that now enfold Thee, with the sunrise of Thy face!

“All that men desire and treasure have I counted loss for Thee; Every hope have I forsaken, save this one, my Lord to see.

“Loosed the sacred bands of friendship, solitary stands my heart; Thou shalt be my sole companion when I see Thee as Thou art.

“From Thy distant throne in glory, flash upon my inward sight, Fill the midnight of my spirit with the splendour of Thy light.

“All Thine other gifts and blessings, common mercies, I disown; Separated from my brothers, I would see Thy face alone.

“I have watched and I have waited as one waiteth for the morn: Still the veil is never lifted, still Thou leavest me forlorn.

“Now I seek Thee in the desert, where the holy hermits dwell; There, beside the saint Serapion, I will find a lonely cell.

“There at last Thou wilt be gracious; there Thy presence, long-concealed, In the solitude and silence to my heart shall be revealed.

“Thou wilt come, at dawn or twilight, o'er the rolling waves of sand; I shall see Thee close beside me, I shall touch Thy pierced hand.

“Lo, Thy pilgrim kneels before Thee; bless my journey with a word; Tell me now that if I follow, I shall find Thee, O my Lord!”

Felix listened: through the darkness, like a murmur of the wind, Came a gentle sound of stillness: “Never faint, and thou shalt find.”

Long and toilsome was his journey through the heavy land of heat, Egypt's blazing sun above him, blistering sand beneath his feet.

Patiently he plodded onward, from the pathway never erred, Till he reached the river-headland called the Mountain of the Bird.

There the tribes of air assemble, once a year, their noisy flock, Then, departing, leave a sentinel perched upon the highest rock.

Far away, on joyful pinions, over land and sea they fly; But the watcher on the summit lonely stands against the sky.

There the eremite Serapion in a cave had made his bed; There the faithful bands of pilgrims sought his blessing, brought him bread.

Month by month, in deep seclusion, hidden in the rocky cleft, Dwelt the hermit, fasting, praying; once a year the cave he left.

On that day a happy pilgrim, chosen out of all the band, Won a special sign of favour from the holy hermit's hand.

Underneath the narrow window, at the doorway closely sealed, While the afterglow of sunset deepened round him, Felix kneeled.

“Man of God, of men most holy, thou whose gifts cannot be priced! Grant me thy most precious guerdon; tell me how to find the Christ.”

Breathless, Felix bent and listened, but no answering voice he heard; Darkness folded, dumb and deathlike, round the Mountain of the Bird.

Then he said, “The saint is silent; he would teach my soul to wait: I will tarry here in patience, like a beggar at his gate.”

Near the dwelling of the hermit Felix found a rude abode, In a shallow tomb deserted, close beside the pilgrim-road.

So the faithful pilgrims saw him waiting there without complaint,— Soon they learned to call him holy, fed him as they fed the saint.

Day by day he watched the sunrise flood the distant plain with gold, While the River Nile beneath him, silvery coiling, sea-ward rolled.

Night by night he saw the planets range their glittering court on high, Saw the moon, with queenly motion, mount her throne and rule the sky.

Morn advanced and midnight fled, in visionary pomp attired; Never morn and never midnight brought the vision long-desired.

Now at last the day is dawning when Serapion makes his gift; Felix kneels before the threshold, hardly dares his eyes to lift.

Now the cavern door uncloses, now the saint above him stands, Blesses him without a word, and leaves a token in his hands.

'Tis the guerdon of thy waiting! Look, thou happy pilgrim, look! Nothing but a tattered fragment of an old papyrus book.

Read! perchance the clue to guide thee hidden in the words may lie: “Raise the stone, and thou shalt find me; cleave the wood, and there am I.”

Can it be the mighty Master spake such simple words as these? Can it be that men must seek Him at their toil 'mid rocks and trees?

Disappointed, heavy-hearted, from the Mountain of the Bird Felix mournfully descended, questioning the Master's word.

Not for him a sacred dwelling, far above the haunts of men: He must turn his footsteps backward to the common life again.

From a quarry near the river, hollowed out amid the hills, Rose the clattering voice of labour, clanking hammers, clinking drills.

Dust, and noise, and hot confusion made a Babel of the spot: There, among the lowliest workers, Felix sought and found his lot.

Now he swung the ponderous mallet, smote the iron in the rock— Muscles quivering, tingling, throbbing—blow on blow and shock on shock;

Now he drove the willow wedges, wet them till they swelled and split, With their silent strength, the fragment, sent it thundering down the pit.

Now the groaning tackle raised it; now the rollers made it slide; Harnessed men, like beasts of burden, drew it to the river-side.

Now the palm-trees must be riven, massive timbers hewn and dressed; Rafts to bear the stones in safety on the rushing river's breast.

Axe and auger, saw and chisel, wrought the will of man in wood: 'Mid the many-handed labour Felix toiled, and found it good.

Every day the blood ran fleeter through his limbs and round his heart; Every night he slept the sweeter, knowing he had done his part.

Dreams of solitary saintship faded from him; but, instead, Came a sense of daily comfort in the toil for daily bread.

Far away, across the river, gleamed the white walls of the town Whither all the stones and timbers day by day were floated down.

There the workman saw his labour taking form and bearing fruit, Like a tree with splendid branches rising from a humble root.

Looking at the distant city, temples, houses, domes, and towers, Felix cried in exultation: “All that mighty work is ours.

“Every toiler in the quarry, every builder on the shore, Every chopper in the palm-grove, every raftsman at the oar,

“Hewing wood and drawing water, splitting stones and cleaving sod, All the dusty ranks of labour, in the regiment of God,

“March together toward His triumph, do the task His hands prepare: Honest toil is holy service; faithful work is praise and prayer.”

While he bore the heat and burden Felix felt the sense of rest Flowing softly like a fountain, deep within his weary breast;

Felt the brotherhood of labour, rising round him like a tide, Overflow his heart and join him to the workers at his side.

Oft he cheered them with his singing at the breaking of the light, Told them tales of Christ at noonday, taught them words of prayer at night.

Once he bent above a comrade fainting in the mid-day heat, Sheltered him with woven palm-leaves, gave him water, cool and sweet.

Then it seemed, for one swift moment, secret radiance filled the place; Underneath the green palm-branches flashed a look of Jesus' face.

Once again, a raftsman, slipping, plunged beneath the stream and sank; Swiftly Felix leaped to rescue, caught him, drew him toward the bank—

Battling with the cruel river, using all his strength to save— Did he dream? or was there One beside him walking on the wave?

Now at last the work was ended, grove deserted, quarry stilled; Felix journeyed to the city that his hands had helped to build.

In the darkness of the temple, at the closing hour of day, As of old he sought the altar, as of old he knelt to pray:

“Hear me, O Thou hidden Master! Thou hast sent a word to me; It is written—Thy commandment—I have kept it faithfully.

“Thou hast bid me leave the visions of the solitary life, Bear my part in human labour, take my share in human strife.

“I have done Thy bidding, Master; raised the rock and felled the tree, Swung the axe and plied the hammer, working every day for Thee.

“Once it seemed I saw Thy presence through the bending palm-leaves gleam; Once upon the flowing water—Nay, I know not; 'twas a dream!

“This I know: Thou hast been near me: more than this I dare not ask. Though I see Thee not, I love Thee. Let me do Thy humblest task!”

Through the dimness of the temple slowly dawned a mystic light; There the Master stood in glory, manifest to mortal sight:

Hands that bore the mark of labour, brow that bore the print of care; Hands of power, divinely tender; brow of light, divinely fair.

“Hearken, good and faithful servant, true disciple, loyal friend! Thou hast followed me and found me; I will keep thee to the end.

“Well I know thy toil and trouble; often weary, fainting, worn, I have lived the life of labour, heavy burdens I have borne.

“Never in a prince's palace have I slept on golden bed, Never in a hermit's cavern have I eaten unearned bread.

“Born within a lowly stable, where the cattle round me stood, Trained a carpenter in Nazareth, I have toiled, and found it good.

“They who tread the path of labour follow where my feet have trod; They who work without complaining do the holy will of God.

“Where the many toil together, there am I among my own; Where the tired workman sleepeth, there am I with him alone.

“I, the peace that passeth knowledge, dwell amid the daily strife; I, the bread of heaven, am broken in the sacrament of life.

“Every task, however simple, sets the soul that does it free; Every deed of love and mercy, done to man, is done to me.

“Thou hast learned the open secret; thou hast come to me for rest; With thy burden, in thy labour, thou art Felix, doubly blest.

“Nevermore thou needest seek me; I am with thee everywhere; Raise the stone, and thou shall find me; cleave the wood, and I am there.”

The legend of Felix is ended, the toiling of Felix is done; The Master has paid him his wages, the goal of his journey is won; He rests, but he never is idle; a thousand years pass like a day, In the glad surprise of that Paradise where work is sweeter than play.

Yet often the King of that country comes out from His tireless host, And walks in this world of the weary as if He loved it the most; For here in the dusty confusion, with eyes that are heavy and dim, He meets again the labouring men who are looking and longing for Him.

He cancels the curse of Eden, and brings them a blessing instead: Blessed are they that labour, for Jesus partakes of their bread. He puts His hand to their burdens, He enters their homes at night: Who does his best shall have as a guest the Master of life and light.

And courage will come with His presence, and patience return at His touch, And manifold sins be forgiven to those who love Him much; The cries of envy and anger will change to the songs of cheer, The toiling age will forget its rage when the Prince of Peace draws near.

This is the gospel of labour, ring it, ye bells of the kirk! The Lord of Love came down from above, to live with the men who work. This is the rose that He planted, here in the thorn-curst soil: Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of Earth is toil.

A silent world,—yet full of vital joy Uttered in rhythmic movements manifold, And sunbeams flashing on the face of things Like sudden smilings of divine delight,— A world of many sorrows too, revealed In fading flowers and withering leaves and dark Tear-laden clouds, and tearless, clinging mists That hung above the earth too sad to weep,— A world of fluent change, and changeless flow, And infinite suggestion of new thought, Reflected in the crystal of the heart,— A world of many meanings but no words, A silent world was Vera's home. For her The inner doors of sound were closely sealed The outer portals, delicate as shells Suffused with faintest rose of far-off morn, Like underglow of daybreak in the sea,— The ear-gates of the garden of her soul, Shaded by drooping tendrils of brown hair,— Waited in vain for messengers to pass, And thread the labyrinth with flying feet, And swiftly knock upon the inmost door, And enter in, and speak the mystic word. But through those gates no message ever came. Only with eyes did she behold and see,— With eyes as luminous and bright and brown As waters of a woodland river,—eyes That questioned so they almost seemed to speak, And answered so they almost seemed to hear,— Only with wondering eyes did she behold The silent splendour of a living world.

She saw the great wind ranging freely down Interminable archways of the wood, While tossing boughs and bending tree-tops hailed His coming: but no sea-toned voice of pines, No roaring of the oaks, no silvery song Of poplars or of birches, followed him. He passed; they waved their arms and clapped their hands; There was no sound. The torrents from the hills Leaped down their rocky pathways, like wild steeds Breaking the yoke and shaking manes of foam. The lowland brooks coiled smoothly through the fields, And softly spread themselves in glistening lakes Whose ripples merrily danced among the reeds. The standing waves that ever keep their place In the swift rapids, curled upon themselves, And seemed about to break and never broke; And all the wandering waves that fill the sea Came buffeting in along the stony shore, Or plunging in along the level sands, Or creeping in along the winding creeks And inlets. Yet from all the ceaseless flow And turmoil of the restless element Came neither song of joy nor sob of grief; For there were many waters, but no voice.

Silent the actors all on Nature's stage Performed their parts before her watchful eyes, Coming and going, making war and love, Working and playing, all without a sound. The oxen drew their load with swaying necks; The cows came sauntering home along the lane; The nodding sheep were led from field to fold In mute obedience. Down the woodland track The hounds with panting sides and lolling tongues Pursued their flying prey in noiseless haste. The birds, the most alive of living things, Mated, and built their nests, and reared their young, And swam the flood of air like tiny ships Rising and falling over unseen waves, And, gathering in great navies, bore away To North or South, without a note of song.

All these were Vera's playmates; and she loved To watch them, wondering oftentimes how well They knew their parts, and how the drama moved So swiftly, smoothly on from scene to scene Without confusion. But she sometimes dreamed There must be something hidden in the play Unknown to her, an utterance of life More clear than action and more deep than looks. And this she felt most deeply when she watched Her human comrades and the throngs of men, Who met and parted oft with moving lips That had a meaning more than she could see. She saw a lover bend above a maid, With moving lips; and though he touched her not A sudden rose of joy bloomed in her face. She saw a hater stand before his foe And move his lips; whereat the other shrank As if he had been smitten on the mouth. She saw the regiments of toiling men Marshalled in ranks and led by moving lips. And once she saw a sight more strange than all: A crowd of people sitting charmed and still Around a little company of men Who touched their hands in measured, rhythmic time To curious instruments; a woman stood Among them, with bright eyes and heaving breast, And lifted up her face and moved her lips. Then Vera wondered at the idle play, But when she looked around, she saw the glow Of deep delight on every face, as if Some visitor from a celestial world Had brought glad tidings. But to her alone No angel entered, for the choir of sound Was vacant in the temple of her soul, And worship lacked her golden crown of song.

So when by vision baffled and perplexed She saw that all the world could not be seen, And knew she could not know the whole of life Unless a hidden gate should be unsealed, She felt imprisoned. In her heart there grew The bitter creeping plant of discontent, The plant that only grows in prison soil, Whose root is hunger and whose fruit is pain. The springs of still delight and tranquil joy Were drained as dry as desert dust to feed That never-flowering vine, whose tendrils clung With strangling touch around the bloom of life And made it wither. Vera could not rest Within the limits of her silent world; Along its dumb and desolate paths she roamed A captive, looking sadly for escape.

Now in those distant days, and in that land Remote, there lived a Master wonderful, Who knew the secret of all life, and could, With gentle touches and with potent words, Open all gates that ever had been sealed, And loose all prisoners whom Fate had bound. Obscure he dwelt, not in the wilderness, But in a hut among the throngs of men, Concealed by meekness and simplicity. And ever as he walked the city streets, Or sat in quietude beside the sea, Or trod the hillsides and the harvest fields, The multitude passed by and knew him not. But there were some who knew, and turned to him For help; and unto all who asked, he gave. Thus Vera came, and found him in the field, And knew him by the pity in his face. She knelt to him and held him by one hand, And laid the other hand upon her lips In mute entreaty. Then she lifted up The coils of hair that hung about her neck, And bared the beauty of the gates of sound,— Those virgin gates through which no voice had passed,— She made them bare before the Master's sight, And looked into the kindness of his face With eyes that spoke of all her prisoned pain, And told her great desire without a word.

The Master waited long in silent thought, As one reluctant to bestow a gift, Not for the sake of holding back the thing Entreated, but because he surely knew Of something better that he fain would give If only she would ask it. Then he stooped To Vera, smiling, touched her ears and spoke: “Open, fair gates, and you, reluctant doors, Within the ivory labyrinth of the ear, Let fall the bar of silence and unfold! Enter, you voices of all living things, Enter the garden sealed,—but softly, slowly, Not with a noise confused and broken tumult,— Come in an order sweet as I command you, And bring the double gift of speech and hearing.”

Vera began to hear. At first the wind Breathed a low prelude of the birth of sound, As if an organ far away were touched By unseen fingers; then the little stream That hurried down the hillside, swept the harp Of music into merry, tinkling notes; And then the lark that poised above her head On wings a-quiver, overflowed the air With showers of song; and one by one the tones Of all things living, in an order sweet, Without confusion and with deepening power, Entered the garden sealed. And last of all The Master's voice, the human voice divine, Passed through the gates and called her by her name, And Vera heard.

What rapture of new life Must come to one for whom a silent world Is suddenly made vocal, and whose heart By the same magic is awaked at once, Without the learner's toil and long delay, Out of a night of dumbly moving dreams, Into a day that overflows with music! This joy was Vera's; and to her it seemed As if a new creative morn had risen Upon the earth, and after the full week When living things unfolded silently, And after the long, quiet Sabbath day, When all was still, another day had dawned, And through the calm expectancy of heaven A secret voice had said, “Let all things speak.” The world responded with an instant joy; And all the unseen avenues of sound Were thronged with varying forms of viewless life.

To every living thing a voice was given Distinct and personal. The forest trees Were not more varied in their shades of green Than in their tones of speech; and every bird That nested in their branches had a song Unknown to other birds and all his own. The waters spoke a hundred dialects Of one great language; now with pattering fall Of raindrops on the glistening leaves, and now With steady roar of rivers rushing down To meet the sea, and now with rhythmic throb And measured tumult of tempestuous waves, And now with lingering lisp of creeping tides,— The manifold discourse of many waters. But most of all the human voice was full Of infinite variety, and ranged Along the scale of life's experience With changing tones, and notes both sweet and sad, All fitted to express some unseen thought, Some vital motion of the hidden heart. So Vera listened with her new-born sense To all the messengers that passed the gates, In measureless delight and utter trust, Believing that they brought a true report From every living thing of its true life, And hoping that at last they would make clear The mystery and the meaning of the world.

But soon there came a trouble in her joy, A note discordant that dissolved the chord And broke the bliss of hearing into pain. Not from the harsher sounds and voices wild Of anger and of anguish, that reveal The secret strife in nature, and confess The touch of sorrow on the heart of life,— From these her trouble came not. For in these, However sad, she felt the note of truth, And truth, though sad, is always musical. The raging of the tempest-ridden sea, The crash of thunder, and the hollow moan Of winds complaining round the mountain-crags, The shrill and quavering cry of birds of prey, The fiercer roar of conflict-loving beasts,— All these wild sounds are potent in their place Within life's mighty symphony; the charm Of truth attunes them, and the hearing ear Finds pleasure in their rude sincerity. Even the broken and tumultuous noise That rises from great cities, where the heart Of human toil is beating heavily With ceaseless murmurs of the labouring pulse, Is not a discord; for it speaks to life Of life unfeigned, and full of hopes and fears, And touched through all the trouble of its notes With something real and therefore glorious.

One voice alone of all that sound on earth, Is hateful to the soul, and full of pain,— The voice of falsehood. So when Vera heard This mocking voice, and knew that it was false; When first she learned that human lips can speak The thing that is not, and betray the ear Of simple trust with treachery of words; The joy of hearing withered in her heart. For now she felt that faithless messengers Could pass the open and unguarded gates Of sound, and bring a message all untrue, Or half a truth that makes the deadliest lie, Or idle babble, neither false nor true, But hollow to the heart, and meaningless. She heard the flattering voices of deceit, That mask the hidden purposes of men With fair attire of favourable words, And hide the evil in the guise of good: The voices vain and decorous and smooth, That fill the world with empty-hearted talk; The foolish voices, wandering and confused, That never clearly speak the thing they would, But ramble blindly round their true intent And tangle sense in hopeless coils of sound,— All these she heard, and with a deep mistrust Began to doubt the value of her gift. It seemed as if the world, the living world, Sincere, and vast, and real, were still concealed, And she, within the prison of her soul, Still waiting silently to hear the voice Of perfect knowledge and of perfect peace.

So with the burden of her discontent She turned to seek the Master once again, And found him sitting in the market-place, Half-hidden in the shadow of a porch, Alone among the careless crowd. She spoke: “Thy gift was great, dear Master, and my heart Has thanked thee many times because I hear But I have learned that hearing is not all; For underneath the speech of men, there flows Another current of their hidden thoughts; Behind the mask of language I perceive The eyes of things unsaid. Touch me again, O Master, with thy liberating hand, And free me from the bondage of deceit. Open another gate, and let me hear The secret thoughts and purposes of men; For only thus my heart will be at rest, And only thus, at last, I shall perceive The mystery and the meaning of the world.”

The Master's face was turned aside from her; His eyes looked far away, as if he saw Something beyond her sight; and yet she knew That he was listening; for her pleading voice No sooner ceased than he put forth his hand To touch her brow, and very gently spoke: “Thou seekest for thyself a wondrous gift,— The opening of the second gate, a gift That many wise men have desired in vain: But some have found it,—whether well or ill For their own peace, they have attained the power To hear unspoken thoughts of other men. And thou hast begged this gift? Thou shalt receive,— Not knowing what thou seekest,—it is thine: The second gate is open! Thou shalt hear All that men think and feel within their hearts: Thy prayer is granted, daughter, go thy way! But if thou findest sorrow on this path, Come back again,—there is a path to peace.”

Beyond our power of vision, poets say, There is another world of forms unseen, Yet visible to purer eyes than ours. And if the crystal of our sight were clear, We should behold the mountain-slopes of cloud, The moving meadows of the untilled sea, The groves of twilight and the dales of dawn, And every wide and lonely field of air, More populous than cities, crowded close With living creatures of all shapes and hues. But if that sight were ours, the things that now Engage our eyes would seem but dull and dim Beside the wonders of our new-found world, And we should be amazed and overwhelmed Not knowing how to use the plenitude Of vision. So in Vera's soul, at first, The opening of the second gate of sound Let in confusion like a whirling flood. The murmur of a myriad-throated mob; The trampling of an army through a place Where echoes hide; the sudden, whistling flight Of an innumerable flock of birds Along the highway of the midnight sky; The many-whispered rustling of the reeds Beneath the passing feet of all the winds; The long-drawn, inarticulate, wailing cry Of million-pebbled beaches when the lash Of stormy waves is drawn across their back,— All these were less bewildering than to hear What now she heard at once: the tangled sound Of all that moves within the minds of men. For now there was no measured flow of words To mark the time; nor any interval Of silence to repose the listening ear. But through the dead of night, and through the calm Of weary noon-tide, through the solemn hush That fills the temple in the pause of praise, And through the breathless awe in rooms of death, She heard the ceaseless motion and the stir Of never-silent hearts, that fill the world With interwoven thoughts of good and ill, With mingled music of delight and grief, With songs of love, and bitter cries of hate, With hymns of faith, and dirges of despair, And murmurs deeper and more vague than all,— Thoughts that are born and die without a name, Or rather, never die, but haunt the soul, With sad persistence, till a name is given. These Vera heard, at first with mind perplexed And half-benumbed by the disordered sound. But soon a clearer sense began to pierce The cloudy turmoil with discerning power. She learned to know the tones of human thought As plainly as she knew the tones of speech. She could divide the evil from the good, Interpreting the language of the mind, And tracing every feeling like a thread Within the mystic web the passions weave From heart to heart around the living world.

But when at last the Master's second gift Was perfected within her, and she heard And understood the secret thoughts of men, A sadness fell upon her, and the load Of insupportable knowledge pressed her down With weary wishes to know more, or less. For all she knew was like a broken word Inscribed upon the fragment of a ring; And all she heard was like a broken strain Preluding music that is never played.

Then she remembered in her sad unrest The Master's parting word,—“a path to peace,”— And turned again to seek him with her grief. She found him in a hollow of the hills, Beside a little spring that issued forth Beneath the rocks and filled a mossy cup With never-failing water. There he sat, With waiting looks that welcomed her afar. “I know that thou hast heard, my child,” he said, “For all the wonder of the world of sound Is written in thy face. But hast thou heard, Among the many voices, one of peace? And is thy heart that hears the secret thoughts, The hidden wishes and desires of men, Content with hearing? Art thou satisfied?” “Nay, Master,” she replied, “thou knowest well That I am not at rest, nor have I heard The voice of perfect peace; but what I hear Brings me disquiet and a troubled mind. The evil voices in the souls of men, Voices of rage and cruelty and fear Have not dismayed me; for I have believed The voices of the good, the kind, the true, Are more in number and excel in strength. There is more love than hate, more hope than fear, In the deep throbbing of the human heart. But while I listen to the troubled sound, One thing torments me, and destroys my rest And presses me with dull, unceasing pain. For out of all the minds of all mankind, There rises evermore a questioning voice That asks the meaning of this mighty world And finds no answer,—asks, and asks again, With patient pleading or with wild complaint, But wakens no response, except the sound Of other questions, wandering to and fro, From other souls in doubt. And so this voice Persists above all others that I hear, And binds them up together into one, Until the mingled murmur of the world Sounds through the inner temple of my heart Like an eternal question, vainly asked By every human soul that thinks and feels. This is the heaviness that weighs me down, And this the pain that will not let me rest. Therefore, dear Master, shut the gates again, And let me live in silence as before! Or else,—and if there is indeed a gate Unopened yet, through which I might receive An answer in the voice of perfect peace—”

She ceased; and in her upward faltering tone The question echoed. Then the Master said: “There is another gate, not yet unclosed. For through the outer portal of the ear Only the outer voice of things may pass; And through the middle doorway of the mind Only the half-formed voice of human thoughts, Uncertain and perplexed with endless doubt; But through the inmost gate the spirit hears The voice of that great Spirit who is Life. Beneath the tones of living things He breathes A deeper tone than ever ear hath heard; And underneath the troubled thoughts of men He thinks forever, and His thought is peace. Behold, I touch thee once again, my child: The third and last of those three hidden gates That closed around thy soul and shut thee in, Is open now, and thou shalt truly hear.”

Then Vera heard. The spiritual gate Was opened softly as a full-blown flower Unfolds its heart to welcome in the dawn, And on her listening face there shone a light Of still amazement and completed joy In the full gift of hearing. What she heard I cannot tell; nor could she ever tell In words; because all human words are vain. There is no speech nor language, to express The secret messages of God, that make Perpetual music in the hearing heart. Below the voice of waters, and above The wandering voice of winds, and underneath The song of birds, and all the varying tones Of living things that fill the world with sound, God spoke to her, and what she heard was peace.

So when the Master questioned, “Dost thou hear?” She answered, “Yea, at last I hear.” And then He asked her once again, “What hearest thou? What means the voice of Life?” She answered, “Love! For love is life, and they who do not love Are not alive. But every soul that loves, Lives in the heart of God and hears Him speak.”

Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death! Uncrook your fingers from my throat, and let me draw my breath. You do me wrong to take me now—too soon for me to die— Ah, loose me from this clutching pain, and hear the reason why.

I know I've had my forty years, and wasted every one; And yet, I tell you honestly, my life is just begun; I've walked the world like one asleep, a dreamer in a trance; But now you've gripped me wide awake—I want another chance.

My dreams were always beautiful, my thoughts were high and fine; No life was ever lived on earth to match those dreams of mine. And would you wreck them unfulfilled? What folly, nay, what crime! You rob the world, you waste a soul; give me a little time.

You'll hear me? Yes, I'm sure you will, my hope is not in vain: I feel the even pulse of peace, the sweet relief from pain; The black fog rolls away from me; I'm free once more to plan: Another chance is all I need to prove myself a man!

The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the good; I watched the battle from afar as one who understood The shouting and confusion, the bloody, blundering fight— How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage it right!

The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale with fear, The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve and veer, The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts that flee— The good cause needs a nobler knight to win the victory.

A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is bright and keen, Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues mean; Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope be dim, But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men follow him.

No blot upon his stainless shield, no weakness in his arm; No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's charm: A man like this could stay the flight and lead the wavering line; Ah, give me but a year of life—I'll make that glory mine!

Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers and creeds, And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half-hearted deeds. They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they doubt. I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out.

You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness blent. Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, fall; But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them all.

Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish strife, To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian life, Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin,— With one short month of such a life a new world would begin!

And love!—I often dream of that—the treasure of the earth; How little they who use the coin have realised its worth! 'Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys secure. But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure.

My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me friend. Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief, The generous fellowship of joy, the sympathy of grief.

I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and fair, I'll pay the gratitude I owe for human love and care. Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes—I'll ask to be forgiven, And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of heaven.

For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my bed; I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt away Around my altar-fire of love—ah, give me but one day!

What's that? I've had another day, and wasted it again? A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain? Thou fool—this night—it's very dark—the last—this choking breath— One prayer—have mercy on a dreamer's soul—God, this is death!

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) To hear, one day, report from those who came With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, To tell of earthly tasks in His employ. For some were grieved because they saw how slow The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; And some were glad because their eyes had seen, Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. At last, before the whiteness of the throne The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, And thus his tidings to the Master brought “Lord, in the city Lupon I have found Three servants of thy holy name, renowned Above their fellows. One is very wise, With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; And one is gifted with the golden speech That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, Has won the people's love by doing good. With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?” Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look The hearts of all are like an open book: “In every soul the secret thought I read, And well I know who loves me best indeed. But every life has pages vacant still, Whereon a man may write the thing he will; Therefore I read the record, day by day, And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three Who serve me there, and take this word from me: Tell each of them his Master bids him go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; There he shall find a certain task for me: But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. Give thou the message, make my word the test, And crown for me the one who loves me best.” Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate.

First to the Temple door he made his way; And there, because it was a holy-day, He saw the folk in thousands thronging, stirred By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. Then, while the people whispered Bernol's name, Through aisles that hushed behind him Bernol came; Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. One moment at the pulpit step he knelt In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt The angel's hand:—“The Master bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there.” Then Bernol's hidden face Went white as death, and for about the space Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; Till Bernol looked around and whispered, “Why?” But answer to his question came there none; The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone.

Within the humble house where Malvin spent His studious years, on holy things intent, Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, Weaving with patient toil and willing care A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, And needing but one thread to be complete. Then Asmiel touched his hand, and broke the thread Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, “The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there.” With sorrow and surprise Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, The solitary journey, and the length Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, Appalled him. With a doubtful brow He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered “How?” But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, With cold, disheartened voice, “I do not know.”

Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek The third and last to whom God bade him speak, Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, With ready heart that faced his work like play, And joyed to find it greater every day! The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, And gave without delay his Lord's command: “He whom thou servest here would have thee go Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, To serve Him there.” Ere Asmiel breathed again The eager answer leaped to meet him, “When?”

The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; He took the golden circlet from his brow And gave the crown to Fermor, answering, “Now! For thou hast met the Master's hidden test, And I have found the man who loves Him best. Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply When He commands us, asking ‘how?’ or ‘why?’ He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust.”

Long ago Apollo called to Aristæus, youngest of the shepherds, Saying, “I will make you keeper of my bees.” Golden were the hives and golden was the honey; golden, too, the music Where the honey-makers hummed among the trees.

Happy Aristæus loitered in the garden, wandered in the orchard, Careless and contented, indolent and free; Lightly took his labour, lightly took his pleasure, till the fated moment When across his pathway came Eurydice.

Then her eyes enkindled burning love within him; drove him wild with longing For the perfect sweetness of her flower-like face; Eagerly he followed, while she fled before him, over mead and mountain, On through field and forest, in a breathless race.

But the nymph, in flying, trod upon a serpent; like a dream she vanished; Pluto's chariot bore her down among the dead! Lonely Aristæus, sadly home returning, found his garden empty, All the hives deserted, all the music fled.

Mournfully bewailing,—“Ah, my honey-makers, where have you departed?” Far and wide he sought them over sea and shore; Foolish is the tale that says he ever found them, brought them home in triumph,— Joys that once escape us fly for evermore.

Yet I dream that somewhere, clad in downy whiteness, dwell the honey-makers, In aërial gardens that no mortal sees: And at times returning, lo, they flutter round us, gathering mystic harvest,— So I weave the legend of the long-lost bees.

Who can tell the hiding of the white bees' nest? Who can trace the guiding of their swift home flight? Far would be his riding on a life-long quest: Surely ere it ended would his beard grow white.

Never in the coming of the rose-red Spring, Never in the passing of the wine-red Fall, May you hear the humming of the white bee's wing Murmur o'er the meadow ere the night bells call.

Wait till winter hardens in the cold gray sky, Wait till leaves are fallen and the brooks all freeze, Then above the gardens where the dead flowers lie, Swarm the merry millions of the wild white bees.

Out of the high-built airy hive, Deep in the clouds that veil the sun, Look how the first of the swarm arrive; Timidly venturing, one by one, Down through the tranquil air, Wavering here and there, Large, and lazy in flight,— Caught by a lift of the breeze, Tangled among the naked trees,— Dropping then, without a sound, Feather-white, feather-light, To their rest on the ground.

Thus the swarming is begun. Count the leaders, every one Perfect as a perfect star Till the slow descent is done. Look beyond them, see how far Down the vistas dim and gray, Multitudes are on the way. Now a sudden brightness Dawns within the sombre day, Over fields of whiteness; And the sky is swiftly alive With the flutter and the flight Of the shimmering bees, that pour From the hidden door of the hive Till you can count no more.

Now on the branches of hemlock and pine Thickly they settle and cluster and swing, Bending them low; and the trellised vine And the dark elm-boughs are traced with a line Of beauty wherever the white bees cling. Now they are hiding the wrecks of the flowers, Softly, softly, covering all, Over the grave of the summer hours Spreading a silver pall. Now they are building the broad roof ledge, Into a cornice smooth and fair, Moulding the terrace, from edge to edge, Into the sweep of a marble stair. Wonderful workers, swift and dumb, Numberless myriads, still they come, Thronging ever faster, faster, faster! Where is their queen? Who is their master? The gardens are faded, the fields are frore,— What is the honey they toil to store In the desolate day, where no blossoms gleam? Forgetfulness and a dream!

But now the fretful wind awakes; I hear him girding at the trees; He strikes the bending boughs, and shakes The quiet clusters of the bees To powdery drift; He tosses them away, He drives them like spray; He makes them veer and shift Around his blustering path. In clouds blindly whirling, In rings madly swirling, Full of crazy wrath, So furious and fast they fly They blur the earth and blot the sky In wild, white mirk. They fill the air with frozen wings And tiny, angry, icy stings; They blind the eyes, and choke the breath, They dance a maddening dance of death Around their work, Sweeping the cover from the hill, Heaping the hollows deeper still, Effacing every line and mark, And swarming, storming in the dark Through the long night; Until, at dawn, the wind lies down Weary of fight; The last torn cloud, with trailing gown, Passes the open gates of light; And the white bees are lost in flight.

Look how the landscape glitters wide and still, Bright with a pure surprise! The day begins with joy, and all past ill, Buried in white oblivion, lies Beneath the snow-drifts under crystal skies. New hope, new love, new life, new cheer, Flow in the sunrise beam,— The gladness of Apollo when he sees, Upon the bosom of the wintry year, The honey-harvest of his wild white bees, Forgetfulness and a dream!

Listen, my beloved, while the silver morning, like a tranquil vision, Fills the world around us and our hearts with peace; Quiet is the close of Aristæus' legend, happy is the ending— Listen while I tell you how he found release.

Many months he wandered far away in sadness, desolately thinking Only of the vanished joys he could not find; Till the great Apollo, pitying his shepherd, loosed him from the burden Of a dark, reluctant, backward-looking mind.

Then he saw around him all the changeful beauty of the changing seasons, In the world-wide regions where his journey lay; Birds that sang to cheer him, flowers that bloomed beside him, stars that shone to guide him,— Traveller's joy was plenty all along the way!

Everywhere he journeyed strangers made him welcome, listened while he taught them Secret lore of field and forest he had learned: How to train the vines and make the olives fruitful; how to guard the sheepfolds; How to stay the fever when the dog-star burned.

Friendliness and blessing followed in his footsteps; richer were the harvests, Happier the dwellings, wheresoe'er he came; Little children loved him, and he left behind him, in the hour of parting, Memories of kindness and a god-like name.

So he travelled onward, desolate no longer, patient in his seeking, Reaping all the wayside comfort of his quest; Till at last in Thracia, high upon Mount Hæmus, far from human dwelling, Weary Aristæus laid him down to rest.

Then the honey-makers, clad in downy whiteness, fluttered soft around him, Wrapt him in a dreamful slumber pure and deep. This is life, beloved: first a sheltered garden, then a troubled journey, Joy and pain of seeking,—and at last we sleep!

The other night I had a dream, most clear And comforting, complete In every line, a crystal sphere, And full of intimate and secret cheer. Therefore I will repeat That vision, dearest heart, to you, As of a thing not feigned, but very true, Yes, true as ever in my life befell; And you, perhaps, can tell Whether my dream was really sad or sweet.

The shadows flecked the elm-embowered street I knew so well, long, long ago; And on the pillared porch where Marguerite Had sat with me, the moonlight lay like snow. But she, my comrade and my friend of youth, Most gaily wise, Most innocently loved,— She of the blue-gray eyes That ever smiled and ever spoke the truth,— From that familiar dwelling, where she moved Like mirth incarnate in the years before, Had gone into the hidden house of Death. I thought the garden wore White mourning for her blessed innocence, And the syringa's breath Came from the corner by the fence Where she had made her rustic seat, With fragrance passionate, intense, As if it breathed a sigh for Marguerite. My heart was heavy with a sense Of something good for ever gone. I sought Vainly for some consoling thought, Some comfortable word that I could say To her sad father, whom I visited again For the first time since she had gone away. The bell rang shrill and lonely,—then The door was opened, and I sent my name To him,—but ah! 'twas Marguerite who came! There in the dear old dusky room she stood Beneath the lamp, just as she used to stand, In tender mocking mood. “You did not ask for me,” she said, “And so I will not let you take my hand; But I must hear what secret talk you planned With father. Come, my friend, be good, And tell me your affairs of state: Why you have stayed away and made me wait So long. Sit down beside me here,— And, do you know, it seems a year Since we have talked together,—why so late?” Amazed, incredulous, confused with joy I hardly dared to show, And stammering like a boy, I took the place she showed me at her side; And then the talk flowed on with brimming tide Through the still night, While she with influence light Controlled it, as the moon the flood. She knew where I had been, what I had done, What work was planned, and what begun; My troubles, failures, fears she understood, And touched them with a heart so kind, That every care was melted from my mind, And every hope grew bright, And life seemed moving on to happy ends. (Ah, what self-beggared fool was he That said a woman cannot be The very best of friends?) Then there were memories of old times, Recalled with many a gentle jest; And at the last she brought the book of rhymes We made together, trying to translate The Songs of Heine (hers were always best). “Now come,” she said, “To-night we will collaborate Again; I'll put you to the test. Here's one I never found the way to do,— The simplest are the hardest ones, you know,— I give this song to you.” And then she read: Mein Kind, wir waren Kinder, Zwei Kinder, jung und froh.

But all the while, a silent question stirred Within me, though I dared not speak the word: “Is it herself, and is she truly here, And was I dreaming when I heard That she was dead last year? Or was it true, and is she but a shade Who brings a fleeting joy to eye and ear, Cold though so kind, and will she gently fade When her sweet ghostly part is played And the light-curtain falls at dawn of day?”

But while my heart was troubled by this fear So deeply that I could not speak it out, Lest all my happiness should disappear, I thought me of a cunning way To hide the question and dissolve the doubt. “Will you not give me now your hand, Dear Marguerite,” I asked, “to touch and hold, That by this token I may understand You are the same true friend you were of old?” She answered with a smile so bright and calm It seemed as if I saw the morn arise In the deep heaven of her eyes; And smiling so, she laid her palm In mine. Dear God, it was not cold But warm with vital heat! “You live!” I cried, “you live, dear Marguerite!” When I awoke; but strangely comforted, Although I knew again that she was dead.

Yes, there's the dream! And was it sweet or sad? Dear mistress of my waking and my sleep, Present reward of all my heart's desire, Watching with me beside the winter fire, Interpret now this vision that I had. But while you read the meaning, let me keep The touch of you: for the Old Year with storm Is passing through the midnight, and doth shake The corners of the house,—and oh! my heart would break Unless both dreaming and awake My hand could feel your hand was warm, warm, warm!

In robes of Tyrian blue the King was drest, A jewelled collar shone upon his breast, A giant ruby glittered in his crown: Lord of rich lands and many a splendid town, In him the glories of an ancient line Of sober kings, who ruled by right divine, Were centred; and to him with loyal awe The people looked for leadership and law. Ten thousand knights, the safeguard of the land, Were like a single sword within his hand; A hundred courts, with power of life and death, Proclaimed decrees of justice by his breath; And all the sacred growths that men had known Of order and of rule upheld his throne.

Proud was the King: yet not with such a heart As fits a man to play a royal part. Not his the pride that honours as a trust The right to rule, the duty to be just: Not his the dignity that bends to bear The monarch's yoke, the master's load of care, And labours like the peasant at his gate, To serve the people and protect the State. Another pride was his, and other joys: To him the crown and sceptre were but toys, With which he played at glory's idle game, To please himself and win the wreaths of fame. The throne his fathers held from age to age, To his ambition seemed a fitting stage Built for King Martin to display at will, His mighty strength and universal skill. No conscious child, that, spoiled with praising, tries At every step to win admiring eyes, No favourite mountebank, whose acting draws From gaping crowds the thunder of applause, Was vainer than the King: his only thirst Was to be hailed, in every race, the first. When tournament was held, in knightly guise The King would ride the lists and win the prize; When music charmed the court, with golden lyre The King would take the stage and lead the choir; In hunting, his the lance to slay the boar; In hawking, see his falcon highest soar; In painting, he would wield the master's brush; In high debate,—“the King is speaking! Hush!” Thus, with a restless heart, in every field He sought renown, and made his subjects yield. But while he played the petty games of life His kingdom fell a prey to inward strife; Corruption through the court unheeded crept, And on the seat of honour justice slept. The strong trod down the weak; the helpless poor Groaned under burdens grievous to endure; The nation's wealth was spent in vain display, And weakness wore the nation's heart away.

Yet think not Earth is blind to human woes— Man has more friends and helpers than he knows; And when a patient people are oppressed, The land that bore them feels it in her breast. Spirits of field and flood, of heath and hill, Are grieved and angry at the spreading ill; The trees complain together in the night, Voices of wrath are heard along the height, And secret vows are sworn, by stream and strand, To bring the tyrant low and free the land.

But little recked the pampered King of these; He heard no voice but such as praise and please. Flattered and fooled, victor in every sport, One day he wandered idly with his court Beside the river, seeking to devise New ways to show his skill to wondering eyes. There in the stream a patient angler stood, And cast his line across the rippling flood. His silver spoil lay near him on the green: “Such fish,” the courtiers cried, “were never seen! Three salmon longer than a cloth-yard shaft— This man must be the master of his craft!” “An easy art!” the jealous King replied: “Myself could learn it better, if I tried, And catch a hundred larger fish a week— Wilt thou accept the challenge, fellow? Speak!” The angler turned, came near, and bent his knee: “'Tis not for kings to strive with such as me; Yet if the King commands it, I obey. But one condition of the strife I pray: The fisherman who brings the least to land Shall do whate'er the other may command.” Loud laughed the King: “A foolish fisher thou! For I shall win, and rule thee then as now.”

Then to Prince John, a sober soul, sedate And slow, King Martin left the helm of State, While to the novel game with eager zest He all his time and all his powers addressed. Sure such a sight was never seen before! In robe and crown the monarch trod the shore; His golden hooks were decked with feathers fine, His jewelled reel ran out a silken line. With kingly strokes he flogged the crystal stream; Far-off the salmon saw his tackle gleam; Careless of kings, they eyed with calm disdain The gaudy lure, and Martin fished in vain. On Friday, when the week was almost spent, He scanned his empty creel with discontent, Called for a net, and cast it far and wide, And drew—a thousand minnows from the tide! Then came the angler to conclude the match, And at the monarch's feet spread out his catch— A hundred salmon, greater than before. “I win!” he cried: “the King must pay the score.” Then Martin, angry, threw his tackle down: “Rather than lose this game I'd lose my crown!” “Nay, thou hast lost them both,” the angler said; And as he spoke a wondrous light was shed Around his form; he dropped his garments mean, And in his place the River-god was seen. “Thy vanity has brought thee in my power, And thou must pay the forfeit at this hour: For thou hast shown thyself a royal fool, Too proud to angle, and too vain to rule, Eager to win in every trivial strife,— Go! Thou shalt fish for minnows all thy life!” Wrathful, the King the magic sentence heard; He strove to answer, but he only chirr-r-ed: His royal robe was changed to wings of blue, His crown a ruby crest,—away he flew!

So every summer day along the stream The vain King-fisher darts, an azure gleam, And scolds the angler with a mocking scream.

A tale that the poet Rückert told To German children, in days of old; Disguised in a random, rollicking rhyme Like a merry mummer of ancient time, And sent, in its English dress, to please The little folk of the Christmas trees.

A little fir grew in the midst of the wood Contented and happy, as young trees should. His body was straight and his boughs were clean; And summer and winter the bountiful sheen Of his needles bedecked him, from top to root, In a beautiful, all-the-year, evergreen suit.

But a trouble came into his heart one day, When he saw that the other trees were gay In the wonderful raiment that summer weaves Of manifold shapes and kinds of leaves: He looked at his needles so stiff and small, And thought that his dress was the poorest of all. Then jealousy clouded the little tree's mind, And he said to himself, “It was not very kind To give such an ugly old dress to a tree! If the fays of the forest would only ask me, I'd tell them how I should like to be dressed,— In a garment of gold, to bedazzle the rest!” So he fell asleep, but his dreams were bad. When he woke in the morning, his heart was glad; For every leaf that his boughs could hold Was made of the brightest beaten gold. I tell you, children, the tree was proud; He was something above the common crowd; And he tinkled his leaves, as if he would say To a pedlar who happened to pass that way, “Just look at me! Don't you think I am fine? And wouldn't you like such a dress as mine?” “Oh, yes!” said the man, “and I really guess I must fill my pack with your beautiful dress.” So he picked the golden leaves with care, And left the little tree shivering there.

“Oh, why did I wish for golden leaves?” The fir-tree said, “I forgot that thieves Would be sure to rob me in passing by. If the fairies would give me another try, I'd wish for something that cost much less, And be satisfied with glass for my dress!” Then he fell asleep; and, just as before, The fairies granted his wish once more. When the night was gone, and the sun rose clear, The tree was a crystal chandelier; And it seemed, as he stood in the morning light, That his branches were covered with jewels bright. “Aha!” said the tree. “This is something great!” And he held himself up, very proud and straight; But a rude young wind through the forest dashed, In a reckless temper, and quickly smashed The delicate leaves. With a clashing sound They broke into pieces and fell on the ground, Like a silvery, shimmering shower of hail, And the tree stood naked and bare to the gale.

Then his heart was sad; and he cried, “Alas For my beautiful leaves of shining glass! Perhaps I have made another mistake In choosing a dress so easy to break. If the fairies only would hear me again I'd ask them for something both pretty and plain: It wouldn't cost much to grant my request,— In leaves of green lettuce I'd like to be dressed!” By this time the fairies were laughing, I know; But they gave him his wish in a second; and so With leaves of green lettuce, all tender and sweet, The tree was arrayed, from his head to his feet. “I knew it!” he cried, “I was sure I could find The sort of a suit that would be to my mind. There's none of the trees has a prettier dress, And none as attractive as I am, I guess.” But a goat, who was taking an afternoon walk, By chance overheard the fir-tree's talk. So he came up close for a nearer view;— “My salad!” he bleated, “I think so too! You're the most attractive kind of a tree, And I want your leaves for my five-o'clock tea.” So he ate them all without saying grace, And walked away with a grin on his face; While the little tree stood in the twilight dim, With never a leaf on a single limb.

Then he sighed and groaned; but his voice was weak— He was so ashamed that he could not speak. He knew at last he had been a fool, To think of breaking the forest rule, And choosing a dress himself to please, Because he envied the other trees. But it couldn't be helped, it was now too late, He must make up his mind to a leafless fate! So he let himself sink in a slumber deep, But he moaned and he tossed in his troubled sleep, Till the morning touched him with joyful beam, And he woke to find it was all a dream. For there in his evergreen dress he stood, A pointed fir in the midst of the wood! His branches were sweet with the balsam smell, His needles were green when the white snow fell. And always contented and happy was he,— The very best kind of a Christmas tree.

We men hat go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,— We love it a different way from you poets that 'bide on the land. We are fond of it, sure! But, you take it as comin' from me, There's a fear and a hate in our love that a landsman can't understand.

Oh, who could help likin' the salty smell, and the blue Of the waves that are lazily breathin' as if they dreamed in the sun? She's a Sleepin' Beauty, the sea,—but you can't tell what she'll do; And the seamen never trust her,—they know too well what she's done!

She's a wench like one that I saw in a singin'-play,— Carmen they called her,—Lord, what a life her lovers did lead! She'd cuddle and kiss you, and sing you and dance you away; And then,—she'd curse you, and break you, and throw you down like a weed.

You may chance it awhile with the girls like that, if you please; But you want a woman to trust when you settle down with a wife; And a seaman's thought of growin' old at his ease Is a snug little house on the land to shelter the rest of his life.

So that was old Poisson's dream,—did you know the Cap'? A brown little Frenchman, clever, and brave, and quick as a fish,— Had a wife and kids on the other side of the map,— And a rose-covered cottage for them and him was his darlin' wish.

“I 'ave sail,” says he, in his broken-up Frenchy talk, “Mos' forty-two year; I 'ave go on all part of de worl' dat ees wet. I'm seeck of de boat and de water. I rader walk Wid ma Josephine in one garden; an' eef we get tire', we set!

“You see dat bateau, Sainte Brigitte? I bring 'er dh'are From de Breton coas', by gar, jus' feefteen year bifore. She ole w'en she come on Kebec, but Holloway Frères Dey buy 'er, an' hire me run 'er along dat dam' Nort' Shore.

“Dose engine one leetl' bit cranky,—too ole, you see,— She roll and peetch in de wave'. But I lak' 'er pretty well; An' dat sheep she lak' 'er captaine, sure, dat's me! Wit' forty ton coal in de bunker, I tek' dat sheep t'rou' hell.

“But I don' wan' risk it no more; I had bonne chance: I save already ten t'ousan' dollar', dat's plenty I s'pose! Nex' winter I buy dat house wid de garden on France An' I tell adieu to de sea, and I leev' on de lan' in ripose.”

All summer he talked of his house,—you could see the flowers Abloom, and the pear-trees trained on the garden-wall so trim, And the Captain awalkin' and smokin' away the hours,— He thought he had done with the sea, but the sea hadn't done with him!

It was late in the fall when he made the last regular run, Clear down to the Esquimault Point and back with his rickety ship; She hammered and pounded a lot, for the storms had begun; But he drove her,—and went for his season's pay at the end of the trip.

Now the Holloway Brothers are greedy and thin little men, With their eyes set close together, and money's their only God; So they told the Cap' he must run the “Bridget” again, To fetch a cargo from Moisie, two thousand quintals of cod.

He said the season was over. They said: “Not yet. You finish the whole of your job, old man, or you don't draw a cent!” (They had the “Bridget” insured for all they could get.) And the Captain objected, and cursed, and cried. But he went.

They took on the cargo at Moisie, and folks beside,— Three traders, a priest, and a couple of nuns, and a girl For a school at Quebec,—when the Captain saw her he sighed, And said: “Ma littl' Fifi got hair lak' dat, all curl!”

The snow had fallen a foot, and the wind was high, When the “Bridget” butted her way thro' the billows on Moisie bar. The darkness grew with the gale, not a star in the sky, And the Captain swore: “We mus' make Sept Isles to-night, by gar!”

He couldn't go back, for he didn't dare to turn; The sea would have thrown the ship like a mustang noosed with a rope; For the monstrous waves were leapin' high astern, And the shelter of Seven Island Bay was the only hope.

There's a bunch of broken hills half sunk in the mouth Of the bay, with their jagged peaks afoam; and the Captain thought He could pass to the north; but the sea kept shovin' him south, With her harlot hands, in the snow-blind murk, till she had him caught.

She had waited forty years for a night like this,— Did he think he could leave her now, and live in a cottage, the fool? She headed him straight for the island he couldn't miss; And heaved his boat in the dark,—and smashed it against Gran' Boule.

How the Captain and half of the people clambered ashore, Through the surf and the snow in the gloom of that horrible night, There's no one ever will know. For two days more The death-white shroud of the tempest covered the island from sight.

How they suffered, and struggled, and died, will never be told; We discovered them all at last when we reached Gran' Boule with a boat; The drowned and the frozen were lyin' stiff and cold, And the poor little girl with the curls was wrapped in the Captain's coat.

Go write your song of the sea as the landsmen do, And call her your “great sweet mother,” your “bride,” and all the rest; She was made to be loved,—but remember, she won't love you,— The men who trust her the least are the sailors who know her the best.

Honour the brave who sleep Where the lost “Titanic” lies, The men who knew what a man must do When he looks Death in the eyes.

“Women and children first,”— Ah, strong and tender cry! The sons whom women had borne and nursed, Remembered,—and dared to die.

The boats crept off in the dark: The great ship groaned: and then,— O stars of the night, who saw that sight, Bear witness, These were men!

“How can I tell,” Sir Edmund said, “Who has the right or the wrong o' this thing? Cromwell stands for the people's cause, Charles is crowned by the ancient laws; English meadows are sopping red, Englishmen striking each other dead,— Times are black as a raven's wing. Out of the ruck and the murk I see Only one thing! The King has trusted his banner to me, And I must fight for the King.”

Into the thick of the Edgehill fight Sir Edmund rode with a shout; and the ring Of grim-faced, hard-hitting Parliament men Swallowed him up,—it was one against ten! He fought for the standard with all his might, Never again did he come to sight— Victor, hid by the raven's wing! After the battle had passed we found Only one thing,— The hand of Sir Edmund gripped around The banner-staff of his King.

When Stävoren town was in its prime And queened the Zuyder Zee, Her ships went out to every clime With costly merchantry.

A lady dwelt in that rich town, The fairest in all the land; She walked abroad in a velvet gown, With many rings on her hand.

Her hair was bright as the beaten gold, Her lips as coral red, Her roving eyes were blue and bold, And her heart with pride was fed.

For she was proud of her father's ships, As she watched them gaily pass; And pride looked out of her eyes and lips When she saw herself in the glass.

“Now come,” she said to the captains ten, Who were ready to put to sea, “Ye are all my men and my father's men, And what will ye do for me?”

“Go north and south, go east and west, And get me gifts,” she said. “And he who bringeth me home the best, With that man will I wed.”

So they all fared forth, and sought with care In many a famous mart, For satins and silks and jewels rare, To win that lady's heart.

She looked at them all with never a thought, And careless put them by; “I am not fain of the things ye brought, Enough of these have I.”

The last that came was the head of the fleet, His name was Jan Borel; He bent his knee at the lady's feet,— In truth he loved her well.

“I've brought thee home the best i' the world, A shipful of Danzig corn!” She stared at him long; her red lips curled, Her blue eyes filled with scorn.

“Now out on thee, thou feckless kerl, A loon thou art,” she said. “Am I a starving beggar girl? Shall I ever lack for bread?”

“Go empty all thy sacks of grain Into the nearest sea, And never show thy face again To make a mock of me.”

Young Jan Borel, he answered naught, But in the harbour cast The sacks of golden corn he brought, And groaned when fell the last.

Then Jan Borel, he hoisted sail, And out to sea he bore; He passed the Helder in a gale And came again no more.

But the grains of corn went drifting down Like devil-scattered seed, To sow the harbour of the town With a wicked growth of weed.

The roots were thick and the silt and sand Were gathered day by day, Till not a furlong out from land A shoal had barred the way.

Then Stävoren town saw evil years, No ships could out or in, The boats lay rotting at the piers, And the mouldy grain in the bin.

The grass-grown streets were all forlorn, The town in ruin stood, The lady's velvet gown was torn, Her rings were sold for food.

Her father had perished long ago, But the lady held her pride, She walked with a scornful step and slow, Till at last in her rags she died.

Yet still on the crumbling piers of the town, When the midnight moon shines free, A woman walks in a velvet gown And scatters corn in the sea.