Part 7 (1/2)

There came into the village I called home A traveller, worn and faint. His garments held The alien dust of many a weary march; None but a child would e'er have thought the man A thing to look at twice, much less adore.

But unto me, child that I was, the look In his large pleading eyes seemed so divine, The ma.s.sive brow so free from thought of earth, The curves of his sad mouth so tremulous With more than woman's love and tenderness, And in each word and act such gentleness, That the quaint thought possessed and held my mind, That by some strange hap an angel soul, As penance for some small offense in heaven Had been compelled to traverse in this wise Our darkened world. And not alone his look Which made his rusty vesture fine, nor yet Alone the birds which fluttered round him as He were a friend, led to the same belief-- But he with other men had naught in common.

They called him fool and idiot, jibed at him And at his rags, and mocked his lofty air So far above his low condition.

And yet unto their jeers he never word Replied, nor ever seemed to know that they About him crawled; but fixing his great eyes Upon the sunset slopes, while mirrored in His face was seen the battle in his heart Of hopes and fears, he rather breathed than spoke Such words as these, except that his had soul: ”At length, O weary heart, it seemeth me The rest is near. The air seems full of promise; My eyes are fixed on what they cannot see; My ears are filled with whispers not quite heard.

All things seem waiting as to hear good news.

The western breeze hath messages for me; The western hills lean down and beckon me.

It must be, sure, because, it _must_ be so, That just beyond those hills, O heart, there doth Await us both the rest we long have sought.”

They told him that the world was round, and so It could not be that all this journeying Should e'er do more than bring him back to us, If he through weary years should persevere.

”I know,” he quick replied, ”the world is round To railroads and ca.n.a.ls, and yet I do Believe,” and, voicing o'er his hopeful creed, And striding on, he soon was lost to view.

We heard of him as pa.s.sing through the towns To west of us; but soon he was forgot By all except myself and one poor maid Whom much love led astray. And soon she paid The debt of Nature, not as doth befit Such payment dread, but, maddened by cold looks, She, sporting with dank gra.s.ses in a pool, Gave back to G.o.d the life His creatures scorned, And breathed in death moist prayers to heaven.

Never Since then hath any mention of the man Reached me. Nor have I ought on which to rely Except a dim remembrance. Yet in me A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows With growing years,--that, far beyond those hills I' the west, upon high plains, among his peers, The fool hath long been deemed philosopher.

_Athenoeum_, 1876.

BALLADE OF THE HAUNTED STREAM

EDWARD G. BENEDICT '82

Like some fair girl who hastes to meet her swain, Yet hesitates each step with maiden fear, So the still stream glides downward to the main, Pausing at times in fern-set pools,--and here, Where bend the willow branches to the clear Deep pool beneath, and where the forest h.o.a.r Seems whispering old tales of magic lore, They say by night the fairies dance in glee, And on the moss beside the curving sh.o.r.e The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.

From beds in purple buds where they have lain Until the mystic midnight time drew near, To chimes of hare-bells and the far-off strain Of forest melodies, the elves appear In all the gorgeousness of goblin gear.

With brilliant dress the golden-beetle wore, With scarlet plumes the humming-bird once bore, They come in troops from every flower and tree, And 'round the fairy throne in concourse pour,-- The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.

Yet mortal eyes see not the goblin train Whose bells sound faintly on the pa.s.ser's ear,-- Who dares attempt a secret sight to gain Feels the sharp p.r.i.c.k of many an elfin spear, And hears, too late, the low, malicious jeer, As long thorn-javelins his body gore, Until, defeated, breathless, bruised, and sore, He turns him from the haunted ground to flee, And murmurs low, as grace he doth implore, ”The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry!”

ENVOI

Sweet mortal maid, that fairy world of yore Has vanished, with the midnights that are o'er; Yet come and sit beside the stream with me, That I, beholding thee, may say, ”Once more The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.”

_Argo_, 1882.

INDIAN SUMMER

VILLANELLE

HERBERT S. UNDERWOOD '83

When the forest flames in crimson and gold, While the sinking sun seems a molten ma.s.s, And a beautiful blaze is all the wold,

The sumach flashes, a banner unrolled, And yellow-clad boughs glow like burnished bra.s.s, When the forest flames in crimson and gold.