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Quite spent and out of breath he reached the

tree,

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

hand:

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

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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,

And sent'st him back to me with bruised 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 Rhacus 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.

160

1843

James Russell Lowell.

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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!"

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I
Might praise him that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,

A thousand years are but a day.

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God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."

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Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,

Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well; 28

And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew :
The man put off the stripling's hue;

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:

"So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways: I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

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And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

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And rising from the sickness drear,

He grew a priest, and now stood here.

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To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, And set thee here; I did not well.

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"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped

Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain.

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72

"Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

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