Pure from their heaven, in mountain chalice
It drinks the rains, as drinks the soul her
And down dim hollows where it winds along,
Pours its life-burden of unlistened song.
I catch the murmur of its undertone.
That sigheth ceaselessly, Alone! Alone!
And hear afar the Rivers gloriously
Shout on their paths toward the shining sea!
The voiceful Rivers, chanting to the sun,
And wearing names of honor, every one :
Outreaching wide, and joining hand with hand
To pour great gifts along the asking land.
Ah, lonely brook! Creep onward through the pines ;
Press through the gloom to where the daylight shines!
Sing on among the stones, and secretly
Feel how the floods are all akin to thee!
Drink the sweet rain the gentle heaven sendeth ; Hold thine own path, howeverward it tendeth; For somewhere, underneath the eternal sky, Thou, too, shall find the Rivers, by and by!
My life, which was so straight and plain, Has now become a tangled skein,
Yet God still holds the thread; Weave as I may, His hand doth guide The shuttle's course, however wide The chain in woof be wed.
One weary night, when months went by, I plied my loom with tear and sigh,
In grief unnamed, untold;
But when at last the morning's light
Broke on my vision, fair and bright
There gleamed a cloth of gold.
And now I never lose my trust,
Weave as I may-and weave I must—
That God doth hold the thread;
He guides my shuttle on its way,
He makes complete my task each day;
What more, then, can be said?
Richard Henry Stoddard.
1825.
THE STORK AND THE RUBY.
A certain prince, I have forgot his name,
Playing one morning at the archers game,
Within a garden where his palace stood,
Shot at a stork, and spilled the creature's blood
For very wantonness and cruelty.
Thrice had he pierced his target in the eye
At fifty paces; twice defloured a rose,
Striking each time the very leaf he chose;
Then he set up his dagger in a hedge,
And split an arrow on its glittering edge.
What next to hit he knew not. Looking round
He saw a stork just lighted on the ground,
To rest itself after its leagues of flight:
The dewy walk in which it stood was bright
So white its plumage, and so clear its eyes,
Twinkling with innocence and sweet surprise.
"I '11 shoot the silly bird," the prince ex-
claimed:
And bending his strong bow he straightway aimed
His keenest arrow at its panting heart;
The lucky arrow missed a vital part,
(Or was it some kind wind that pushed it by ?) And only struck and broke the creature's thigh.
The poor thing tumbled in a lily bed,
And its blood ran and made the lilies red.
It marked the changing color of the flowers,
The winding garden walks, the bloomy bowers,
And, last, the cruel prince, who laughed with
glee-
Fixing the picture in its memory:
This done it struggled up, and flew away,
Leaving the prince amazed, and in dismay.
Beyond the city walls, a league or more,
A little maid was spinning at her door,
Singing old songs to cheer the long day's work.
Her name was Heraclis. The fainting stork
Dropped at her feet, and with its ebon bill
Showed her its thigh, broken and bleeding still.
She fetched it water from a neighbor spring,
And while it drank and washed each dabbled
She set the fractured bones with pious care,
And bound them with the fillet of her hair.
Eased of its pain, again it flew away,
Leaving the maiden happier all the day.
That night the prince as usual went to bed,
His royal wine a little in his head.
Beside him stood a casket full of
The spoil of conquered monarchs' diadems:
Great pearls, milk-white, and shining like the
Emeralds, grass-green, sapphires, like skies of
Brilliants that threw their light upon the wall,
And one great ruby that outshone them all,
Large as a pigeon's egg, and red as wine.
At last he slumbered in the pale moonshine.
Meantime the watchful stork was in his bowers;
Again it saw its blood upon the flowers,
And saw the walks, the fountain's shaft in air,
But not the cruel prince, no prince was there :
So up and down the spacious courts it flew,
And ever nearer to the palace drew.
Passing the lighted windows row by row,
It saw the prince, and saw the ruby's glow.
Hopping into his chamber, grave and still,
It seized the precious ruby with its bill,
And spreading then its rapid wings in flight,
Flew out and vanished in the yawning night.
Night slowly passed, and morning broke again.
There came a light tap on the window-pane
Of Heraclis: it woke her, she
And slipping on in haste her peasant clothes,
Opened the door to see who knocked, and lo,
In walked the stork again, as white as snow,
Triumphant with the ruby, whose red ray
Flamed in her face, anticipating day!
Again the creature pointed to its thigh,
And something human brightened in its eye,
A look that said "I thank you!" plain as words.
The virgin's look was brighter than the bird's,
So glad was she to see it was not dead :
She stretched her hand to sleek its bowing head,
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