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It is my curse ! sweet memories fall
TIIE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.
THERE came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
He stretched some chords, and drew
Pure taste by right divine,
Into a sweet half-sleep,
And yet he used them so,
In whom no good they saw;
For idly, hour by hour,
It seemed the loveliness of things
But, when a glance they caught
And e'en his memory dim,
Each spot where he had trod,
It is a mere wild rosebud,
Quite sallow now, and dry,
Some gleams of days gone by, —
All sweet times be o'er,--
Stay with us no more:
But never one, like this,
With such a deep, wild bliss ;
Earth's stablest things are shadows,
And, in the life to come,
May tell of this old home:
AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR.
He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough
Pressed round to hear the praise of one
As homespun as their own.
Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears,
From humble smiles and tears.
Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard,
Some presence of the bard.
And slavish tyranny to see, —
In high humanity.
Promptings their former life above,
For beauty, truth, and love.
Freely among his children all,
Wherein some grains may fall.
Of a more true and open life,
With wayside beauty rife.
heart bear flowers
Within the hearts of all men lie
In sunny hours like this.
In life or death, since time began,
The angel heart of man.
Great deeds and feelings find a home,
Of classic Greece and Rome. O, mighty brother-soul of man,
Where'er thou art, in low or high,
Deep down within the primitive soul,
To one who grasps the whole :
That struggled on the many's tongue
O'er the weak thrones of wrong.
In the great mass its base is hid,
A moveless pyramid.
That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams
From the great heart of God.
Hope is but vague and undefined,
A blessing to his kind.
So full of heaven to me, as when
To the lives of coarsest men. It may be glorious to write Thoughts that shall glad the two or three High souls, like those far stars that come in sight
Once in a century ;
But better far it is to speak
One simple word, which now and then
And friendless sons of men ;
Which, seeking not the praise of art,
In the untutored heart.
May be forgotten in his day,
Who live and speak for aye.
RHECUS. God sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence, Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes The slothful down of pampered ignorance, Found in it even a moment's fitful rest.
There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it by beauty's right dirine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. For, as in nature nought is made in vain, But all things have within their hull of use A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritual secrets to the ear 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,