GOD sends his teachers unto every age, Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each form of worship that hath The life of man, and given it to grasp 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 divine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Of spirit; so, in whatsoe'er the heart wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, A youth named Rhocus, wandering in the Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, 20 30 40 He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured "Rhocus!" "T was as if the leaves, Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it. And, while he paused bewildered, yet again 50 What seemed the substance of a happy dream To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. Rhocus, I am the Dryad of this tree," 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, 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, 60 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, Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, 80 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, 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, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond So, haply meeting in the afternoon 90 Some comrades who were playing at the dice, He joined them and forgot all else beside. 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 100 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 bee, 110 Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, 120 And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. |