They took a faulty cast Of Shakespeare's features after he was dead. I, seeing the future's face, make here my cast.

And this the premonition that was mine— A perfect premonition full and clear— And as I know the persons it concerns, I cannot think it all improbable, So write it down, that when the time has passed, I may compare the facts with what is here. And yet I scarcely should have written this, Had I not seen his haunting face to-day— That face which I had never seen before, Except in my one dream upon the rock That leans, athirst, above the brimming stream.

The soldier, when he goes to meet the foe, May darkly understand that death is near, Yet bravely marches on to destiny. I too behold a shadow in my path; I too go on, nor waver in my way.

THE PREMONITION.

I.

Far off, across the turbulence of waves, I seem to see a wife upon her knees, Her supplicating hands outstretched to one Who strikes her with coarse blows on cheek and breast. He is her husband, and he leaves her there, And takes her jewels and her only purse, And in a ship embarks for other shores. His is the face that I have seen to-day— A handsome face whatever be its sins: A firm mouth, with large wandering black eyes, A bearded under-lip, and snowy teeth; Long, fine black hair, which idly falls about Shoulders that stoop from labor over books; Withal a high and intellectual brow, Not broad enough to hold a generous soul.

II.

I see the farm-house where my Grace abides; The afternoon is clear, the grass is green; And Grace comes forth and walks toward the brook. Beside its bank, which is a slope of moss, I see the face intent upon the scene. Now Grace draws near, and starting back to find A stranger in the dell she loves the most, Is half attracted by his cultured mien, And half repelled by inconsistent fears. He rises, bowing low, and begs to speak: He has not seen such beauty in his life; He craves to touch a finger of her hand, To judge if she be of the earth, or one Upon some holy mission from that land Whereto, with fastings and with many prayers, Through God's good grace he hopes yet to attain.

Then John Bernard, who has been working near, Seeding the furrows for his empty barns, This stranger and my Grace puts hand in hand. I see her smile in answer to his smiles. She makes her ears his cells for honeyed speech; And yet she seems to fear him for some cause. Now, as the slow sun tarries on the hills, I see them parting at the farm-house door— The wide half-door which now is opened half— And as he passes down the bordered path, His kiss still lingering upon her hand, She leans out from the door, and watches him Until he vanishes between the trees. I seem to see her face, a trouble sweet Dwelling upon it, even though the light Sets it in glory, with a slender ring Above the white brow and the golden hair.

III.

I see them riding down the village street: He on a horse as black and strong as iron, She on her snowy palfrey, robed in green, Slack reins in hand; the horses side by side. Even as I see and write, my heart grows cold— Cold as a bird that on a winter's day Breasts the bleak wind, high in the biting air.

IV.

I see a city with a concourse vast Of gas-lit streets and buildings, and above, Its dear face buried in its cloudy hands, The Night bends over, weeping. In the street I see the face again I saw to-day.

I see him writing in a narrow room. I read the words: To-night I end my life. The river says "Embrace, I offer rest." The world and I have grappled in fair fight, And I am beaten. Having found defeat, I long to go down to its lowest depths. I only ask, that those who find these words, Will send them to my people past the sea; To-night I cross a wider: so, adieu. MICHAEL GIANNI.

This is his true name, And afterward he writes his wife's address. He leaves the paper foldless on a stand, And then goes forth; but not to end his life. He dreams that now his life is but begun. He sees my Grace in all his coming days; He sees the large old farm-house where she dwells, And therein hopes to happily pass the years, Living in peace and plenty till he dies.

Most human calculations end in loss, And every one who has a plan devised, Is like a foolish walker on a rope, First balancing on this side, then on that, Hazarding much to gain a paltry end; And if the rope of calculation breaks, Or if the foot slip, added to mishap Come the world's jeers and gibes; and so 'tis best. Should half men's schemings find success at last, I fear God's plans would have but narrow room.

(Michael Gianni, now I know your name, This premonition gives the hint to me To trip you in your studied subtleties. You will not win my Grace, who loves me still; You will not dare to kiss her hand again.)

V.

Beneath a rustic arbor, near her house, Linked with sweet converse, sit two shadowed forms. The new sword moon against the violet sky Is held aloft, by one white arm of cloud Raised from the sombre shoulder of a hill. My Grace and I are sitting in the bower, And down upon my breast and girdling arm Is strewn pure gold—no alloy mixes it— The pure ore of her lovable gold hair. The cunning weavers of Arabia, Who seek to shuttle sunshine in their silk, Would give its weight in diamonds for this hair, Whereof to make a fabric for their king.

I see the trees that skirt the yonder vale, And where the road dents down between their arms, I see a figure passing to and fro. Now he comes near, and striding up the path Enters the arbor, and discovers us. It is Gianni; to his flashing eyes A fierce deep hatred leaps up from his heart, As lightning, which forebodes the nearing storm, Leaps luridly above the midnight hills. With some excuse Gianni passes on, While Grace, with sweetly growing confidence, Whispers with lips which slightly touch my ear, "I never loved him, I was always yours."

VI.

I see the parlor that my Grace adorns With flowers and with her presence, which is far Above the fragrant presence of all flowers. Grace sits at her piano; on her lips A song of twilight and the evening star. There as the shadows slowly gather round, Gianni comes, and stops a moody hour; She, ice to his approaches; he, despair; But ere he goes, he places in her hand A large ripe orange, fresh from Sicily, And begs her to accept it for his sake. She bows him from the room, and puts the fruit Before her on her music, once again Dreaming of me, and singing some wild song Of Pan, who, by the river straying down, Cut reeds, and blew upon them with such power, He charmed the lilies and the dragon-flies. Now while the song is swaying to its close, I seem to come myself into the room, And clasp true arms about my darling Grace; She lays Gianni's orange in my hand, And says that I must eat it; she would not Have taken it, but that she did not wish To cross him with refusal. So I say, "Surely this stranger has peculiar taste To bring an orange to you—only one. Perhaps there is more in it than we know."

VII.

I seem to have this orange in my room, And in the light of morning turn it round. I find no flaw in it on any side. A goodly orange, ripe, with tender coat Of that deep reddish yellow, like fine gold. Perhaps the tree had wrapped its roots about A chest of treasure, and had drawn the wealth Into its heart to spend it on its fruit. But while I slowly turn the orange round, And look more closely, lo, the slightest cut!— A deep incision made by some sharp steel. I carefully cut the rind, and without once Breaking the fine apartments of the fruit, Or spilling thence a drop of golden juice, Find that one room through which the steel has passed. This I dissect, and, testing as I can, Fail to discover aught that's poisonous.

VIII.

I bring my microscope, and on a seed Clinging with abject fear, I see a Shape Whose wings are reeking with foul slime, whose eyes Glare with a demon lustre born of Pain. Its face has somewhat of the human shape, The under-jaw too large, and bearded long; The forehead full of putrefying sores. Such front the Genius, Danhasch, may have worn. It may be that the hideous face is like The idol Krishna's, from whose feasts depart, Smitten with cholera, the Hindoo devotees. The body oozes with a loathsome dew. Its head is red as if sucked full of blood; But all the rest, its hundred legs, and tail, The mailed back, and the wide-webbed prickly wings, Are green, like those base eyes of jealousy Which hope to see a covert murder done. I find the finest needle in the house, And press the point down on the slimy hide. The blunt edge crushes, does not pierce the shape, And brings the straggle that I gloat to see. The legs stretch out, and work to get away; A barbed tongue and twin fangs drool from the mouth. The eyes protrude, and glare with deadly hate, Until they fix at last in stony calm.

I ponder long on what this shape can be. There is no doubt Gianni placed it here; If so, where has he caught and caged a thing The naked eye has not the power to see? Its uses must be deadly. In revenge, He hopes to take the life of her I love. While poisons of another character Might be detected, this remains unknown. The Thing I have discovered—this vile Shape, Must be an atom of some foul disease! And now I have the secret. For some days Gianni waits upon a stricken man, Who dies, a victim of the cholera. In some strange manner he has found this germ, And placed it in the orange, hoping thus To bring the dread disease to Grace Bernard.

IX.

I seem to be with him I hate, once more, And now accuse him of the fiendish deed That I through chance averted. Now I too Command him to return to his true wife, And no more cross my path; should he remain, He shall but wait to meet her, for my words Already have been sent that he is here.

X.

I know that I shall fall sick dangerously, And in some way by dark Gianni's hand. I seem to lie asleep upon my bed, And Grace is near, and watching my calm face. The village doctor makes his morning call, And takes my listless hand to feel the pulse. There is no pulse! His hand goes to the heart. My heart has ceased to beat, and all is still. The hand the doctor held drops down like lead. A looking-glass receives no fading mist, Laid on the icy and immovable lips. My eyes are fixed; I glare upon them all. Grace twines her widowed arms about my neck, Kissing my sallow cheeks, with hopeless tears, Calling my name, and begging me come back; So, thinking me dead, they close my staring eyes, And put the face-cloth over my white face, And go with silent tread about the room. They do not know that I am in a trance. I hear each whisper uttered, and the sighs That heave the desolate bosom of my Grace.

XI.

All is so dark since they have shut my eyes; I think it cruel in them to do that— Shut out the light of day and every chance That I could ever have of seeing Grace. I cannot move a muscle, and I try, And strive to part my lips to say some word; But all in vain; the mind has lost control Over the body's null machinery.

I wonder if they yet will bury me, Thinking me dead? To wake up in the grave, And hear a wagon rumbling overhead, Or a chance footstep passing near the spot, And then cry out and never get reply; But hear the footstep vanish far away, And know the cold mould smothers up all cries, And is above, beneath, and round me, Is bitter thought. To lie back then and die, Suffocating slowly while I tear my hair, Makes me most wild to think of.

XII.

Hark! 'tis night. The hour is borne distinctly by the wind. My Grace sits near me; now comes to my side, And unto Him, whose ear is everywhere, She, kneeling down, puts up her hands, and prays.

"O Father of all mercies, still be merciful, And raise me from the gulf of this despair. I cannot think nor feel my love is dead. If he yet lives, and lingers in a trance, Give me some sign that I may know the truth."

I slowly raise my hand, and let it fall.

Grace springs up all delight, and draws the cloth, Kissing my lips, and begging me to wake. I try, but fail to raise my hand again. The trance still lasts. My eyes will not unclose; My lips refuse the functions of their place.

XIII.

On the next day will be the funeral; But Grace has this delayed for one week more; Yet all in vain, I neither wake nor move.

I hear the people coming in the house, And straight within my coffin long to rise. I hear the pastor's prayer, and then his words, Simple and good, and full of tender praise. They come at last to take a parting look, A file of faces that pass out the door. I hear them quickly screwing down the lid; And now the bearers take me from the house, And push me, feet first, in the black plumed hearse. Gianni is a bearer of my pall, And Grace is choked with sobs, and follows on. We reach the grave. They slowly lower me down. Some gravel on the side is loose, and falls Battling upon the narrow coffin lid.

Horror on horror! Let me see no more!

AFTER BURIAL.

So stands the premonition; and to-day I look back on the words here written down, Comparing them with what has happened since, And find there is no flaw in any scene.

Always intending to tell Grace my fear That some day I might be entombed alive, I always failed, until it was too late. But as the sod fell on the coffin-lid, My trance was broken, and I called and screamed, Until they drew me up from out the grave, And breaking in my prison, set me free.

Gianni fled, fearing my face at last. To-day I have his letter from his home, Beneath the far-off skies of Italy, Craving forgiveness for his wrongs to me; Saying that he repents for all his past, And with Christ's help, will lead a better life. He found his wife and children overjoyed To have him back again to their embrace.

To-morrow Grace Bernard and I shall wed. The bell that tolled my bitter funeral knell, Will ring, glad of my wedding and my bride— Ring merrily round and round a jubilant peal.

There comes no premonition now to show to me What the long future has in store for us; But from my door I watch the sunset skies, And see blue mountains tower o'er golden plains, Clothed with pure beauty stretching far away. So seems the future. I await the morn.

VEERA.

I.

THE KING'S SEAL.

While yet upon his couch our father lay, Sick unto death, my brothers, with one mind, Plotted abrupt destruction to my life. I did not tell the king, because I feared To lessen by one heat the throbbing of his heart. Beside his couch I knelt, and bowed my head— I, his first-born, whom all the people loved. His hot, weak hand he laid upon my hair, And blessed me with his blessing, then said on: "Thou hast beheld in Spring the dark green blade That stabs up through the unresisting earth; At last the Summer crowns it with a flower. So thou, when I am passed away, and gone to dust, Shalt wear a crown, but grander than the shrubs— The symbol of a kingdom, on thy brow. But take thee now this lesson to thy heart, And from the grass learn wisdom; wear thy crown As meekly, and as void of all display, As doth the shrub half hidden under leaves." So he bent down with pain, and kissed my cheek, As though, having issued a great law, he Had set his seal upon it—the king's seal.

I cared not for the crown, save as a means To give my soul a higher and a nobler life. This my old tutor taught me—a strange man he, With careless garb, and heavy hairy brows Bridged over eyes that shone like furnace fire. My will was lost in his. I grew like him. I only cared to study and to dream. And he it was who, standing in the night Between two pillars on the palace porch, Saw my two brothers pass, and overheard The hateful whisper of their black design.

II.

THE NIGHT OF THE ESCAPE.

The night before the murder was to be, I drew my long, keen dagger from its sheath, And stole on down the marble stair-way, past The throne-room, to the curtained arch wherein My brothers lay asleep. No dream beset The guilty Dead-Sea of their rest. They lay Engulfed in pillows, like two ships mid waves. I saw their faces, and the one was fair. Long dark brown hair fell from his noble brow, And on the silken billow of the couch lay curled Like spray. The other face was cold and dark I felt no pity in my angry breast For this, the older brother of the twain. Yet he it was who always praised me most. Praise is a dust of diamond that, if thrown Well in the eyes of even noble men, Will blind them to a host of flagrant faults. The moon was full, and 'twixt two silvered clouds Looked forth, like any princess from between The tasseled curtains of her downy bed. The vagrant wind came through the opened blind, And whispered of the desert; with its hand Fanning the flame that in the silver urn Mimicked a star. Beneath the rays I wrote: I should have slain you both for your intent Of murder; but I spare, you, and I go. So, take the kingdom, and ride long and well. Between them there I laid the paper down, Then thrust my dagger, to the golden hilt, Through it, deep in the couch. So passing on, I came to that high room wherein my sire, The king, lay sick, and drifting near to death. My tutor at his feet, and on the floor, Embraced by needed sleep, lay like a dog. I came to see the king's face once again, Ere, like a maid who in her lover trusts, I gave myself up, body and soul, To the great desert and the world beyond. How sweetly slept the king! His long white beard, And venerable face, were undisturbed By even the breezy motion of his breath. Surely, I thought, the fever must have passed. I bent down tenderly to kiss the cheek. How cold! God help me, can the king be dead? My heart gave one wild bound, driving a wave Of grief, vast as a mountain, up the sands Of my bleak desolation. The wave broke Into a blinding mist of tears at last. I longed to moan out my despair, but paused, Checking my sobs to kiss the face once more; Then moved from the strange room, parting with care The massive silken curtains, fearful then Their rustle might attract some wakeful ear. I found the jewels of the crown, and these With all my own I in a bag secured, And hung about my neck, beneath my robe. Noiseless as a ghost I passed the hall, And down the stair-way wrought of sandal-wood Made lightest footsteps. As I stole Along the alcoves where the maidens slept, A lady stood before me. She outstretched Her white and naked arms, and round my neck Entwined them. She was the captive, Veera, Once held for ransom from some Bedouin tribe; But when the coin was brought she would not go; At this the king was pleased, for thus she made Perpetual peace between him and her kin. No maid in Mesched up and down, was found To rival her for beauty. All her words Were apt and good, and all her ways were sweet. I, in her happy prison, ivory-barred By her white arms, was restless for release. She would not set me free until I told The purport of my vigil, and revealed The place whereat my journey would be done. I did not wait to pay her back her kiss. I hurried to the stables, where I found My coal-black steed. He neighed and pawed the floor. I bound the saddle firmly, grasped the reins, And in a moment passed the city's gate, And shot out on the desert, where the wind Made race with us, but lagged behind at last.

III.

TWO PROBLEMS.

Vienna gained, I gave myself to books. Here I had promised Veera I should be. New paths were opened to me, and my days Were lost in study. All my tutor knew Seemed cramped and meagre in these wider ways Of thought and science. Better far, I said, To know, than be a king. There is no crown That so becomes the brow as knowledge does.

To solve two problems, now engrossed my life. My Bedouin tutor had spent all his days Upon them, but without success. On me He grafted all the purpose of his soul, Determined, though he failed, that I might yet Toil on when he was compassed round by death. These sister problems were, How make pure gold? And, How endure forever on the earth?

IV.

THE DOOR.

Among the books that I had bought myself, I found the Bible. This to peruse I soon essayed; but ere I had read far, Behold! I found the door behind which lay The answers to my problems. Locked and barred The door was, yet I knew it was the door. For here I read of Eden, and that in the midst The Tree of Life stood, while through the land A river ran which parted in four heads; And one was Gihon, the Ethiop stream; And one was Pison, the great crystal tide Which floods Havilah, where fine gold is found, And rare bdellium and the onyx stone. So, as my tutor said, my problems were A dual secret, and the one contained The other. All the long night through I pored Above the words, and kissed the unconscious page With reverent lips. My heart was like a sponge Soaked in the water of the mystic words.

V.

THE KEY.

As one who in the night, passing a street Deserted, finds a lost key rusted and old, Yet knows that it will fit some great iron door Behind which countless treasures are concealed, So I, when first I came to Mesmer's works, Knew I had found the key to move the door Of my twin problems. Then, day after day, I made them all my study. Much I mourned The sad disheartened life that Mesmer led. He never knew that one good thing, success; But yet his strong, persistent genius, to the end Endured. Yet such the rule in every age. The one true man appears, and gives his thought, At which the whole world rail or basely sneer. The next man comes and makes a thankless use Of what the other knew, and wins the praise The first man lost by being ripe too soon.

VI.

NEWS FROM MESCHED.

Down the long street, upon my iron-black steed, I rode and pondered. Where shall I seek to find A sweet soul pure as dawn, who to my will shall be Both malleable and ductile; who can soar Over the whole earth, or go back in the past? While yet I mused, lo, up a garden walk, A lady chased a bird. An empty cage Stood in the vine-clad cottage-window near. The bird was like some sweet elusive thought; The maid, a Sappho, weary with pursuit. She only glanced my way to see me pass, Then turned and ran towards me, her large eyes With gladness scintillant. It was the maid, Veera. Her hand upon my shoulder, up the walk We went, my steed following, while her bird, Tired of his liberty, had found his cage. Strange news had Veera. Here she lived in peace; But through the city she had sought me long. When I was gone from Mesched, and my brothers read The paper I had written, their wrath rose Against my tutor whom they deemed the spy. He, being found asleep beside the king Who lay dead, to his door they brought The baseless charge of murder. Through the streets They sent their criers to proclaim the deed. So, clamorous for his life, the people came And dragged him forth, and led him to the block And slew him. On a spear they set his head, And placed it high upon the tower above The eastern gate. The birds pecked at the eyes, And of the hair made comfortable nests. The rain beat on it, and the active wind Crowned it with desert dust. Always the sun Made salutation to it, flushing it Until it seemed more ghastly than before. But after this mad crime the older brother grew Jealous of him, the younger. One dark morn They found the last-born lifeless in the street, Stabbed by a long, sharp poniard in the back. Misrule followed misrule, and justice fled. Laws were abolished, and pleasure's lewdest voice Hawked in the market-place, and through the streets. Her story done, Veera entreated me To set my face for Mesched with the dawn. "Not yet," I said, "not yet." And then I made Strange passes with my hands, and braced my will, To sway her will; then with a questioning glance She passed out to a calm Mesmeric sleep. So, well I knew that I had found the soul My purpose needed, and I bade her wake.

VII.

THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR.

I sat and pondered in my room that night Until the towers and steeples, near and far, Like sentries of the sky, issued the hour Of midnight. Then I wrought magnetic force With waving hands; and set my swerveless will That Veera should approach me, and that none Should harm or see her as she passed the streets. At last I heard her footstep on the stair— The patter of her feet as soft as rain, And then she turned the hinge and entered in. A long white wrapper made of satin, bound With lace of gold, and fastened at the throat With buttons of cut diamond, clad her form. A band of opals was around her neck— A hundred little worlds with central fires. Her feet were naked, and her hair was down. Her large eyes, wide and staring, took no heed Of anything before them; thus she slept. I bade her sit beside me, and I placed The Bible on her knee, and laid her hand Upon the verse that names the tree of life. "Tell me," I said, "where may this tree be found." "The way is long," she answered me at last, "And I am worn and weary. I have tracked The shore of one long river, many a mile. The sun scorches like fire. I am athirst. I cannot find the tree; my search is done." "Look down the past, and find if any knew Where grows this tree, or how it might be found." Again her lips made answer: "One I see, Long dead, who bends above a written scroll, And therein makes strange characters, which hold Some hidden sense pertaining to this tree. In Milan, in the Ambrosian library there, I see this scroll to-night; 'tis worn with age."

"Now seek thy home again," I said, "sweet soul. Thou art as meek and pure as him whose hand First wrote God's words." So she arose, and passed Along the dark, deserted street, and I Followed her closely, till I saw her cross The threshold of her cottage; then I turned, And found my home, and calmly slept till dawn.

VIII.

THE PALIMPSEST.

In Milan, in the Ambrosian library there, Among Pinellian writings seared with age, I found a prophet's palimpsest—a scroll That Angelo Maio had brought to light. And on the margin of this scroll, I found Mysterious signs which baffled me at first. After a full week's search I chanced to find The mongrel dialect of which they were. I thus translated: Gihon is the Nile. A perfect soul may find long life and gold. Surely, I thought, Veera the maid is pure. Her life's blue sky has not one cloud of sin. If her feet press the soil where Eve first trod, I can but follow and attain. So I Back to Vienna came and found Veera. To her I made my double purpose plain, And prayed her to go with me in my search. She smiled assent. To be near me, she said, Had brought her to Vienna; this indeed Detained her from her kinsmen. Her heart's book Lay open to me, and I read her love. So we were wed, and both lives ran to one.

IX.

GIHON.

Now for the Nile we journeyed, gaining first The town of Gondokoro, where the stream Of Bahr el Abiad, or White Nile, flows. Thence we passed on, and with the savage kings Of Karagwe, Uganda and Ungoro, stopped, To rest our weary feet, or in their huts Escape the sun's fierce glare. At last we found The sources of the Nile; two lakes that now Are called Nyanza and Nzige. If here I had but paused, and had retraced my steps, The whole world would have known and praised my name, For I was first to find the secret out. But then I cared not for it, journeying on. After a week, we came upon a land All void, and barren of a single leaf. Veera was pale and worn, although she bore Fatigue with generous patience for my sake. Our feet were swollen, and with the hot sand scorched, Our garments were in tatters, and we seemed Like beggars, in a land where there were none to give. At night we slept beside a wide, cool stream, Whereat we quenched our thirst, and bathed our feet. My beard was grown, and all my hair hung down Neglected, on my shoulders. I was weak, And thin, and feverish, and Veera, too, I saw was sick, and languished hour by hour.

X.

GOLD!

In the sand, lo! something to the sun Replied with brilliant lustre; as I brushed The dust away, I saw that it was gold!— A solid bar of gold—and yet so weak Was I, I could not move it from its place. I would have given then the bar of gold To buy a crust, but could not. So we passed, And came where five great rivers went their ways. Which should we follow? One I knew Led to the tree of life, but all the rest Went back to death. Here a dead bird we found, And tearing off its gaudy plumage, ate. Upon occasional trees grew strange sparse fruits, And these sustained us as we wandered on. Along the banks for many a mile we went By each of these five rivers, then returned. So all my hope was dead, and long I prayed That I might live to see my land again.

XI.

THE MESSAGE OF THE THREE MEN.

The night came on, and unto sleep we gave Our spirits. When the golden day was born Veera awoke, and told me all her dream; "Lo, in the night three men have talked with me— Three strange good men who said the kindest words, And said that only those who were released From sin, could find the garden of the Lord. And this release was bought upon a cross By One, a Nazarene, with priceless blood. If He would bear our sins, then we might reach The garden; but we must not touch or eat The tree of life that flourished in the midst." Then I abased my soul, and prayed again, And cast off all the burden of my sins, Tearing my strange ambition from my heart. And Veera, too, embraced the Christian Faith. So we arose, and went upon our way, And journeying eastward, Eden found at last!

XII.

THE GARDEN.

The trees were housed with nests, and every one Was like a city of song. The streams too Were voluble; they laughed and gurgled there Like men who, at a banquet, sit and drink And chatter. All the grass was like a robe Of velvet, and there was no need of rain. In dells roofed with green leafage, nature spread Couches meet for a Sybarite. Sweet food The servant trees extended us to eat In their long, branchy arms. Even the sun Was tempered, and the sky was always blue. Corpulent grapes along the crystal rocks, Made consorts of the long-robed lady leaves. The butterfly and bee, from morn till eve, Consulted with the roses, lip to lip, Which grew in rank profusion. They at times Dared to invade the empire of the grass, And overthrew its green-robed, spear-armed hosts. The lilies too were like an army there, And every night they struck their snowy tents, To please their great commander, the round moon— God's lily in the everlasting sky.

XIII.

CAST OUT.

As to the heliotrope comes fluttering down The peacock-butterfly, who sips and flies, So each glad day gold-winged came to the land And sipped its sip of time and fled away. Now in an evil hour I hungered, and I saw The tree of life that grew forbidden fruit. What harm, I thought, is there to always live? To live is happiness; but to die is pain. The rental claimed by death falls due too soon. So I reached forth, and took the fruit, and ate. Then all the sky grew dark, and from the land Malignant terrors drove me shrieking forth; And as I fled, my youth abandoned me; My hair turned gray, my shoulders stooped, my blood Grew colder, and my perfect form was changed. A weak old man with wrinkled face, I fled, To wander in the wastes. Once I looked back Upon the garden; over it the sky Was soft and clear; and midway in the air I saw Veera between two angels, borne To heaven. So I turned again and fled.

XIV.

"LONG LIVE THE KING."

I came at last to Mesched. It was night. The moon, half-shadowed, trailed its silver robe Over the tower above the eastern gate, And there revealed the outlines of a skull Set on a spear. The portals were unbarred. I passed the arch, but in the shadow kept, While on the flinty wall I edged my knife. Then I crept on until I gained the porch Of the great palace. There I smote the guard, And entering in, sought out the sleeping king. Deep in his heart I plunged my thirsty knife. All the next day I sat before the gate, And begged, and heard the rumors of the town; Then, standing forth, I claimed to be their king, And told them all my story to the end. None pitied the dead ruler, for he knew No pity while he lived. So I was king at last; But all my life, and all my hope to me Are dust and ashes, knowing that God's frown Abides upon me. Would that I could die!

There is no kindlier spirit than content. And there is nothing better in the world Than to do good, and trust in God for all.