Verses

SAVOIR C'EST PARDONNER

  Myriad rivers seek the sea,    The sea rejects not any one;  A myriad rays of light may be    Clasped in the compass of one sun;  And myriad grasses, wild and free,    Drink of the dew which faileth none.  A myriad worlds encompass ours;    A myriad souls our souls enclose;  And each, its sins and woes and powers,    The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows,  And from the Infinite Knowledge flowers    The Infinite Pity's fadeless rose.  Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise;    All-seeing One, give us to see;  Our judgments are profanities,    Our ignorance is cruelty,  While Thou, knowing all, dost not despise    To pardon even such things as we.

MORNING

  O word and thing most beautiful!  Our yesterday was cold and dull,    Gray mists obscured the setting sun,  Its evening wept with sobbing rain;  But to and fro, mid shrouding night,    Some healing angel swift has run,  And all is fresh and fair again.  O, word and thing most beautiful!  The hearts, which were of cares so full,    The tired hands, the tired feet,  So glad of night, are glad of morn,—  Where are the clouds of yesterday?    The world is good, the world is sweet,  And life is new and hope re-born.  O, word and thing most beautiful!  O coward soul and sorrowful,    Which sighs to note the ebbing light  Give place to evening's shadowy gray!    What are these things but parables,—  That darkness heals the wrongs of day,    And dawning clears all mists of night.  O, word and thing most beautiful!  The little sleep our cares to lull,    The long, soft dusk and then sunrise,  To waken fresh and angel fair,    Lite all renewed and cares forgot,    Ready for Heaven's glad surprise.  So Christ, who is our Light, be there.

A BLIND SINGER

  In covert of a leafy porch,      Where woodbine clings,  And roses drop their crimson leaves,      He sits and sings;  With soft brown crest erect to hear,      And drooping wings.  Shut in a narrow cage, which bars      His eager flight,  Shut in the darker prison-house      Of blinded sight,  Alike to him are sun and stars,      The day, the night.  But all the fervor of high noon,      Hushed, fragrant, strong,  And all the peace of moonlit nights    When nights are long,  And all the bliss of summer eves,    Breathe in his song.  The rustle of the fresh green woods,    The hum of bee,  The joy of flight, the perfumed waft    Of blossoming tree,  The half-forgotten, rapturous thrill   Of liberty,—  All blend and mix, while evermore,    Now and again,  A plaintive, puzzled cadence comes,    A low refrain,  Caught from some shadowy memory    Of patient pain.  In midnight black, when all men sleep,    My singer wakes,  And pipes his lovely melodies,    And trills and shakes.  The dark sky bends to listen, but    No answer makes.  O, what is joy? In vain we grasp    Her purple wings;  Unwon, unwooed, she flits to dwell    With humble things;  She shares my sightless singer's cage,    And so—he sings.

MARY

  The drowsy summer in the flowering limes     Had laid her down at ease,  Lulled by soft, sportive winds, whose tinkling chimes     Summoned the wandering bees  To feast, and dance, and hold high carnival  Within that vast and fragrant banquet-hall.  She stood, my Mary, on the wall below,     Poised on light, arching feet,  And drew the long, green branches down to show     Where hung, mid odors sweet,—  A tiny miracle to touch and view,—  The humming-bird's, small nest and pearls of blue.  Fair as the summer's self she stood, and smiled,     With eyes like summer sky,  Wistful and glad, half-matron and half-child,     Gentle and proud and shy;  Her sweet head framed against the blossoming bough,  She stood a moment,—and she stands there now!  'Tis sixteen years since, trustful, unafraid,     In her full noon of light,  She passed beneath the grass's curtaining shade,     Out of our mortal sight;  And springs and summers, bearing gifts to men,  And long, long winters have gone by since then.  And each some little gift has brought to dress     That unforgotten bed,—  Violet, anemone, or lady's-tress,     Or spray of berries red,  Or purpling leaf, or mantle, pure and cold,  Of winnowed snow, wrapped round it, fold on fold.  Yet still she stands, a glad and radiant shape,     Set in the morning fair,—  That vanished morn which had such swift escape.     I turn and see her there,—  The arch, sweet smile, the bending, graceful head;  And, seeing thus, why do I call her dead?

WHEN LOVE WENT

  What whispered Love the day he fled?  Ah! this was what Love whispered;  "You sought to hold me with a chain;  I fly to prove such holding vain.  "You bound me burdens, and I bore  The burdens hard, the burdens sore;  I bore them all unmurmuring,  For Love can bear a harder thing.  "You taxed me often, teased me, wept;  I only smiled, and still I kept  Through storm and sun and night and day,  My joyous, viewless, faithful way.  "But, dear, once dearest, you and I  This day have parted company.  Love must be free to give, defer,  Himself alone his almoner.  "As free I freely poured my all,  Enslaved I spurn, renounce my thrall,  Its wages and its bitter bread."  Thus whispered Love the day he fled!

OVERSHADOWED

"Insomuch that they brought forth the sick into the streets, and laid them on beds and couches, that at the least the shadow of Peter, passing by, might overshadow some of them."

  Mid the thronged bustle of the city street,    In the hot hush of noon,  I wait, with folded hands and nerveless feet.    Surely He will come soon.  Surely the Healer will not pass me by,  But listen to my cry.  Long are the hours in which I lie and wait,    Heavy the load I bear;  But He will come ere evening. Soon or late    I shall behold Him there;  Shall hear His dear voice, all the clangor through;  "What wilt thou that I do?"  "If Thou but wilt, Lord, Thou canst make me clean."    Thus shall I answer swift.  And He will touch me, as He walks serene;    And I shall rise and lift  This couch, so long my prison-house of pain,  And be made whole again.  He lingers yet. But lo! a hush, a hum.    The multitudes press on  After some leader. Surely He is come!    He nears me; He is gone!  Only His shadow reached me, as He went;  Yet here I rest content.  In that dear shadow, like some healing spell,    A heavenly patience lay;  Its balm of peace enwrapped me as it fell;    My pains all fled away,—  The weariness, the deep unrest of soul;  I am indeed "made whole."  It is enough, Lord, though Thy face divine    Was turned to other men.  Although no touch, no questioning voice was mine,    Thou wilt come once again;  And, if Thy shadow brings such bliss to me,  What must Thy presence be?

TIME TO GO

      They know the time to go!  The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour  In field and woodland, and each punctual flower  Bows at the signal an obedient head      And hastes to bed.      The pale Anemone  Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night;  The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight;  Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines,      In blithesome lines,      Drop their last courtesies,  Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest;  The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest  And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green;      Fair and serene,      Her sister Lily floats  On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes  To court the golden splendor of the skies,—  The sudden signal comes, and down she goes      To find repose,      In the cool depths below,  A little later, and the Asters blue  Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew;  While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay,      Turns him away,      Furls his bright parasol,  And, like a little hero, meets his fate.  The Gentians, very proud to sit up late,  Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set      'Neath coverlet,      Downy and soft and warm.  No little seedling voice is heard to grieve  Or make complaints the folding woods beneath;  No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know      The time to go.      Teach us your patience, brave,  Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you,  Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true,  That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow,      With smiles, not sorrow.

GULF-STREAM

  Lonely and cold and fierce I keep my way,    Scourge of the lands, companioned by the storm,  Tossing to heaven my frontlet, wild and gray,    Mateless, yet conscious ever of a warm  And brooding presence close to mine all day.  What is this alien thing, so near, so far,    Close to my life always, but blending never?  Hemmed in by walls whose crystal gates unbar    Not at the instance of my strong endeavor  To pierce the stronghold where their secrets are?  Buoyant, impalpable, relentless, thin,    Rise the clear, mocking walls. I strive in vain  To reach the pulsing heart that beats within,    Or with persistence of a cold disdain,  To quell the gladness which I may not win.  Forever sundered and forever one,    Linked by a bond whose spell I may not guess,  Our hostile, yet embracing currents run;    Such wedlock lonelier is than loneliness.  Baffled, withheld, I clasp the bride I shun.  Yet even in my wrath a wild regret    Mingles; a bitterness of jealous strife  Tinges my fury as I foam and fret    Against the borders of that calmer life,  Beside whose course my wrathful course is set.  But all my anger, all my pain and woe,    Are vain to daunt her gladness; all the while  She goes rejoicing, and I do not know,    Catching the soft irradiance of her smile,  If I am most her lover or her foe.

MY WHITE CHRYSANTHEMUM

  As purely white as is the drifted snow,     More dazzling fair than summer roses are,     Petalled with rays like a clear rounded star,  When winds pipe chilly, and red sunsets glow,       Your blossoms blow.  Sweet with a freshening fragrance, all their own,     In which a faint, dim breath of bitter lies,     Like wholesome breath mid honeyed flatteries;  When other blooms are dead, and birds have flown,        You stand alone.  Fronting the winter with a fearless grace,     Flavoring the odorless gray autumn chill,     Nipped by the furtive frosts, but cheery still,  Lifting to heaven from the bare garden place        A smiling face.  Roses are fair, but frail, and soon grow faint,     Nor can endure a hardness; violets blue,     Short-lived and sweet, live but a day or two;  The nun-like lily bows without complaint,        And dies a saint.  Each following each they hasten them away,     And leave us to our winter and our rue,     Sad and uncomforted; you, only you,  Dear, hardy lover, keep your faith and stay        Long as you may.  And so we choose you out from all the rest,     For that most noble word of "Loyalty,"     Which blazoned on your petals seems to be;  Winter is near,—stay with us; be our guest,        The last and best.

TILL THE DAY DAWN

  Why should I weary you, dear heart, with words,     Words all discordant with a foolish pain?  Thoughts cannot interrupt or prayers do wrong,     And soft and silent as the summer rain  Mine fall upon your pathway all day long.  Giving as God gives, counting not the cost     Of broken box or spilled and fragrant oil,  I know that, spite of your strong carelessness,     Rest must be sweeter, worthier must be toil,  Touched with such mute, invisible caress.  One of these days, our weary ways quite trod,     Made free at last and unafraid of men,  I shall draw near and reach to you my hand.     And you? Ah! well, we shall be spirits then,  I think you will be glad and understand.

MY BIRTHDAY

  Who is this who gently slips     Through my door, and stands and sighs,  Hovering in a soft eclipse,  With a finger on her lips    And a meaning in her eyes?  Once she came to visit me     In white robes with festal airs,  Glad surprises, songs of glee;  Now in silence cometh she,     And a sombre garb she wears.  Once I waited and was tired,     Chid her visits as too few;  Crownless now and undesired,  She to seek me is inspired     Oftener than she used to do.  Grave her coming is and still,     Sober her appealing mien,  Tender thoughts her glances fill;  But I shudder, as one will     When an open grave is seen.  Wherefore, friend,—for friend thou art,—     Should I wrong thee thus and grieve?  Wherefore push thee from my heart?  Of my morning thou wert part;     Be a part too of my eve.  See, I hold my hand to meet     That cool, shadowy hand of thine;  Hold it firmly, it is sweet  Thus to clasp and thus to greet,     Though no more in full sunshine.  Come and freely seek my door,     I will open willingly;  I will chide the past no more,  Looking to the things before,     Led by pathways known to thee.

BY THE CRADLE

  The baby Summer lies asleep and dreaming—     Dreaming and blooming like a guarded rose;  And March, a kindly nurse, though rude of seeming,  Is watching by the cradle hung with snows.  Her blowing winds but keep the rockers swinging,     And deepen slumber in the shut blue eyes,  And the shrill cadences of her high singing     Are to the babe but wonted lullabies.  She draws the coverlet white and tucks it trimly,     She folds the little sleeper safe from harm;  Or bends to lift the veil, and, peering inly,     Makes sure it lies all undisturbed and warm.  And so she sits, till in the still, gray dawning     Two fairer nurses come, her place to take,  And smiling, beaming, with no word of warning,     Draw off the quilt, and kiss the babe awake.

A THUNDER STORM

  The day was hot and the day was dumb,  Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum,     Not a bird was seen or a butterfly,  And ever till noon was over, the sun     Glared down with a yellow and terrible eye;  Glared down in the woods, where the breathless boughs  Hung heavy and faint in a languid drowse,     And the ferns were curling with thirst and heat;  Glared down on the fields where the sleepy cows     Stood munching the grasses, dry and sweet.  Then a single cloud rose up in the west,  With a base of gray and a white, white crest;     It rose and it spread a mighty wing.  And swooped at the sun, though he did his best     And struggled and fought like a wounded thing.  And the woods awoke, and the sleepers heard,  Each heavily hanging leaflet stirred     With a little expectant quiver and thrill,  As the cloud bent over and uttered a word,—     One volleying, rolling syllable.  And once and again came the deep, low tone  Which only to thunder's lips is known,     And the earth held up her fearless face  And listened as if to a signal blown,—     A signal-trump in some heavenly place.  The trumpet of God, obeyed on high,  His signal to open the granary     And send forth his heavily loaded wains  Rambling and roaring down the sky     And scattering the blessed, long-harvested rains.

THROUGH THE DOOR

  The angel opened the door     A little way,  And she vanished, as melts a star,     Into the day,  And, for just a second's space,     Ere the bar he drew,  The pitying angel paused,     And we looked through.  What did we see within?     Ah! who can tell?  What glory and glow of light     Ineffable;  What peace in the very air,     What hush and calm,  Soothing each tired soul     Like healing balm!  Was it a dream we dreamed,     Or did we hear  The harping of silver harps,     Divinely clear?  A murmur of that "new song,"     Which, soft and low,  The happy angels sing,—     Sing as they go?  And, as in the legend old,     The good monk heard,  As he paced his cloister dim,     A heavenly bird,  And, rapt and lost in the joy     Of the wondrous song,  Listened a hundred years,     Nor deemed them long,  So chained in sense and limb,     All blind with sun,  We stood and tasted the joy     Of our vanished one;  And we took no note of time,     Till soon or late  The gentle angel sighed,     And shut the gate.  The vision is closed and sealed.     We are come back  To the old, accustomed earth,     The well-worn track,—  Back to the daily toil,     The daily pain,—  But we never can be the same,     Never again.  We who have bathed in noon,     All radiant white,  Shall we come back content     To sit in night?  Content with self and sin,     The stain, the blot?  To have stood so near the gate     And enter not?  O glimpse so swift, so sweet,     So soon withdrawn!  Stay with us; light our dusks     Till day shall dawn;  Until the shadows flee,     And to our view  Again the gate unbars,     And we pass through.

READJUSTMENT

  After the earthquake shock or lightning dart  Comes a recoil of silence o'er the lands,  And then, with pulses hot and quivering hands,  Earth calls up courage to her mighty heart,  Plies every tender, compensating art,  Draws her green, flowery veil above the scar,  Fills the shrunk hollow, smooths the riven plain,  And with a century's tendance heals again  The seams and gashes which her fairness mar.  So we, when sudden woe like lightning sped,  Finds us and smites us in our guarded place,  After one brief, bewildered moment's space,  By the same heavenly instinct taught and led,  Adjust our lives to loss, make friends with pain,  Bind all our shattered hopes and bid them bloom again.

AT THE GATE

"For behold, the kingdom of God is within you."      Thy kingdom here?      Lord, can it be?  Searching and seeking everywhere      For many a year,  "Thy kingdom come" has been my prayer.  Was that dear kingdom all the while so near?      Blinded and dull      With selfish sin,  Have I been sitting at the gates      Called Beautiful,  Where Thy fair angel stands and waits,  With hand upon the lock to let me in?      Was I the wall      Which barred the way,  Darkening the glory of Thy grace,      Hiding the ray  Which, shining out as from Thy very face,  Had shown to other men the perfect day?      Was I the bar      Which shut me out  From the full joyance which they taste      Whose spirits are  Within Thy Paradise embraced,—  Thy blessed Paradise, which seemed so far?      The vision swells:      I seem to catch  Celestial breezes, rustling low,      The asphodels,  Where, singing softly ever to and fro,  Moves each fair saint who in Thy presence dwells.      Let me not sit      Another hour,  Idly awaiting what is mine to win,      Blinded in wit,  Lord Jesus, rend these walls of self and sin;  Beat down the gate, that I may enter it.

A HOME

  What is a home? A guarded space,    Wherein a few, unfairly blest,  Shall sit together, face to face,    And bask and purr and be at rest?  Where cushioned walls rise up between    Its inmates and the common air,  The common pain, and pad and screen    From blows of fate or winds of care?  Where Art may blossom strong and free,    And Pleasure furl her silken wing,  And every laden moment be    A precious and peculiar thing?  And Past and Future, softly veiled    In hiding mists, shall float and lie  Forgotten half, and unassailed    By either hope or memory,  While the luxurious Present weaves    Her perfumed spells untried, untrue,  Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves,    All for the pleasure of a few?  Can it be this, the longed-for thing    Which wanderers on the restless foam,  Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing,    Aspire to, dream of, christen "Home"?  No. Art may bloom, and peace and bliss;    Grief may refrain and Death forget;  But if there be no more than this,    The soul of home is wanting yet.  Dim image from far glory caught,    Fair type of fairer things to be,  The true home rises in our thought,    A beacon set for men to see.  Its lamps burn freely in the night,    Its fire-glows unchidden shed  Their cheering and abounding light    On homeless folk uncomforted.  Each sweet and secret thing within    Gives out a fragrance on the air,—  A thankful breath, sent forth to win    A little smile from others' care.  The few, they bask in closer heat;    The many catch the farther ray.  Life higher seems, the world more sweet,    And hope and Heaven less far away.  So the old miracle anew    Is wrought on earth and proved good,  And crumbs apportioned for a few,    God-blessed, suffice a multitude.

THE LEGEND OF KINTU

  When earth was young and men were few,  And all things freshly born and new  Seemed made for blessing, not for ban,  Kintu, the god, appeared as man.  Clad in the plain white priestly dress,  He journeyed through the wilderness,  His wife beside. A mild-faced cow  They drove, and one low-bleating lamb;  He bore a ripe banana-bough,  And she a root of fruitful yam:  This was their worldly worth and store,  But God can make the little more.  The glad earth knew his feet; her mould  Trembled with quickening thrills, and stirred.  Miraculous harvests spread and rolled,  The orchards shone with ruddy gold;  The flocks increased, increased the herd,  And a great nation spread and grew  From the swift lineage of the two,  Peopling the solitary place;  A fair and strong and fruitful race,  Who knew not pain nor want nor grief,  And Kintu reigned their lord and chief.  So sped three centuries along,  Till Kintu's sons waxed fierce and strong;  They learned to war, they loved to slay;  Cruel and dark grew all their faces;  Discordant death-cries scared the day,  Blood stained the green and holy places;  And drunk with lust, with anger hot,  His sons mild Kintu heeded not.  At last the god arose in wrath,  His sandals tied, and down the path,  His wife beside him, as of yore,  He went. A cow, a single lamb  They took; one tuber of the yam;  One yellow-podded branch they bore  Of ripe banana,—these, no more,  Of all the heaped-up harvest store.  They left the huts, they left the tent,  Nor turned, nor cast a backward look:  Behind, the thick boughs met and shook.  They vanished. Long with wild lament  Mourned all the tribe, in vain, in vain;  The gift once given was given no more,  The grieved god came not again.  To what far paradise they fared,  That heavenly pair, what wilderness  Their gentle rule next owned and shared,  Knoweth no man,—no man can guess.  On secret roads, by pathways blind,  The gods go forth, and none may find;  But sad the world where God is not!  By man was Kintu soon forgot,  Or named and held as legend dim,  But the wronged earth, remembering him,  By scanty fruit and tardy grain  And silent song revealed her pain.  So centuries came, and centuries went,  And heaped the graves and filled the tent.  Kings rose, and fought their royal way  To conquest over heaps of slain,  And reigned a little. Then, one day,  They vanished into dust again.  And other kings usurped their place,  Who called themselves of Kintu's race,  And worshipped Kintu; not as he,  The mild, benignant deity,  Who held all life a holy thing,  Be it of insect or of king,  Would have ordained, but with wild rite,  With altars heaped, and dolorous cries,  And savage dance, and bale-fires light,  An unaccepted sacrifice.  At last, when thousand years were flown,  The great Ma-anda filled the throne:  A prince of generous heart and high,  Impetuous, noble, fierce, and true;  His wrath like lightning hurtling by,  His pardon like the healing dew.  And chiefs and sages swore each one  He was great Kintu's worthiest son.  One night, in forests still and deep,  A shepherd sat to watch his sheep,  And started, as through darkness dim  A strange voice rang and calmed to him:  "Wake! there are wonders waiting thee!  Go where the thick mimosas be,  Fringing a little open plain,  Honor and power wouldest thou gain?  Go, foolish man, to fortune blind;  Follow the stream, and thou shall find."  Three several nights the voice was heard,  Louder and more emphatic grown.  Then, at the thrice-repeated word,  The shepherd rose and went alone,  Threading the mazes of the stream  Like one who wanders in a dream.  Long miles he ran, the stream beside,  Which this way, that way, turned and sped,  And called and sang, a noisy guide.  At last its vagrant dances led  To where the thick mimosas' shade  Circled and fringed an open glade;  There the wild streamlet danced away,  The moon was shining strangely white,  And by its fitful, gleaming ray  The shepherd saw a wondrous sight;  In the glade's midst, each on his mat,  A group of armed warriors sat,  White-robed, majestic, with deep eyes  Fixed on him with a stern surprise;  And in their midst an aged chief  Enthroned sat, whose beard, like foam,  Caressed his mighty knees. As leaf  Shakes in the wind the shepherd shook,  And veiled his eyes before that look,  And prayed, and thought upon his home,  Nor spoke, nor moved, till the old man,  In voice like waterfall, began:  "Shepherd, how names himself thy king?"  "Ma-anda," answered, shuddering,  The shepherd. "Good, thou speakest well.  And now, my son, I bid thee tell  Thy first king's name." "It was Kintu."  "'Tis rightly said, thou answerest true.  Hark! To Ma-anda, Kintu's son,  Hasten, and bid him, fearing naught,  Come hither, taking thee for guide;  Thou and he, not another one,  Not even a dog may run beside!  Long has Ma-anda Kintu sought  With spell and conjuration dim,  Now Kintu has a word for him.  Go, do thy errand, haste thee hence,  Kintu insures thy recompense."  All night the shepherd ran, star-led,  All the hot day he hastened straight,  Nor stopped for sleep, nor stopped for bread,  Until he reached the city gate,  And saw red rays of evening fall  On the leaf-hutted capital.  He sought the king, his tale he told.  Ma-anda faltered not, nor stayed.  He seized his spear, he left the tent:  Shook off the brown arms of his queens,  Who clasped his knees with wailing screams;  On pain of instant death forbade  That man should spy or follow him;  And down the pathway, arching dim,  Fearless and light of heart and bold  Followed the shepherd where he went.  But one there was who loved his king  Too well to suffer such strange thing,—  The chieftain of the host was he,  Next to the monarch in degree;  And, fearing wile or stratagem  Menaced the king, he followed them  With noiseless tread and out of sight.  So on they fared the forest through,  From evening shades to dawning light,  From damning to the dusk and dew,—  The unseen follower and the two.  Ofttimes the king turned back to scan  The path, but never saw he man.  At last the forest-guarded space  They reached, where, ranged in order, sat,  Each couched upon his braided mat,  The white-robed warriors, face to face  With their majestic chief. The king,  Albeit unused to fear or awe,  Bowed down in homage, wondering,  And bent his eyes, as fearing to be  Blinded by rays of deity.  Then asked the mighty voice and calm,  "Art thou Ma-anda called?" "I am."  "And art thou king?" "The king am I,"  The bold Ma-anda made reply.  "Tis rightly spoken; but, my son,  Why hast thou my command forgot,  That no man with thee to this spot  Should come, except thy guide alone?"  "No man has come," Ma-anda said.  "Alone we journeyed, he and I;  And often have I turned my head,  And never living thing could spy.  None is there, on my faith as king."  "A king's word is a weighty thing,"  The old man answered. "Let it be,—  But still a man HAS followed thee!  Now answer, Ma-anda, one more thing:  Who, first of all thy line, was king?"  "Kintu the god." "'Tis well, my son,  All creatures Kintu loved,—not one  Too pitiful or weak or small;  He knew them and he loved them all;  And never did a living thing,  Or bird in air or fish in lake,  Endure a pang for Kintu's sake.  Then rose his sons, of differing mind,  Who gorged on cruel feasts each day,  And bathed in blood, and joyed to slay,  And laughed at pain and suffering.  Then Kintu sadly went his way.  The gods long-suffering are and kind,  Often they pardon, long they wait;  But men are evil, men are blind.  After much tarriance, much debate,  The good gods leave them to their fate;  So Kintu went where none may find.  Each king in turn has sought since then,  From Chora down, the first in line,  To win lost Kintu back to men.  Vain was his search, and vain were thine,  Save that the gods have special grace  To thee, Ma-anda. Face to face  With Kintu thou shall stand, and he  Shall speak the word of power to thee;  Clasped to his bosom, thou shall share  His knowledge of the earth, the air,  And deep things, secret things, shall learn.  But stay,"—the old man's voice grew stern,—  "Before I further speak, declare  Who is that man in ambush there!"  "There is no man,—no man I see."  "Deny no longer, it is vain.  Within the shadow of the tree  He lurketh; lo, behold him plain!"  And the king saw;—for at the word  From covert stole the hidden spy,  And sought his monarch's side. One cry,  A lion's roar, Ma-anda gave,  Then seized his spear, and poised and drave.  Like lightning bolt it hissed and whirred,  A flash across the midnight blue.  A single groan, a jet of red,  And, pierced and stricken through and through,  Upon the ground the chief fell dead;  But still with love no death could chase,  His eyes sought out his master's face.  Blent with Ma-anda's a wild cry  Of many voices rose on high,  A shriek of anguish and despair.  Which shook and filled the startled air;  And when the king, his wrath still hot,  Turned him, the little grassy plain  All lonely in the moonlight lay:  The chiefs had vanished all away  As melted into thin, blue wind;  Gone was the old man. Stunned and blind,  For a long moment stood the king;  He tried to wake; he rubbed his eyes,  As though some fearful dream to end.  It was no dream, this fearful thing:  There was the forest, there the skies,  The shepherd—and his murdered friend.  With feverish haste, bewildered, mazed,  This way and that he vainly sped,  Beating the air like one half crazed;  With prayers and cries unnumbered,  Searching, imploring,—vain, all vain.  Only the echoing woods replied,  With mocking booms their long aisles through,  "Come back, Kintu, Kintu, Kintu!"  And pitiless to all his pain  The unanswering gods his suit denied.  At last, as dawning slowly crept  To day, the king sank down and wept  A space; then, lifting as they could  The lifeless burden, once a man,  He and the shepherd-guide began  Their grievous journey through the wood,  The long and hard and dreary way,  Trodden so lightly yesterday;  And the third day, at evening's fall,  Gained the leaf-hutted capital.  There burial rites were duly paid:  Like bridegroom decked for banqueting,  The chief adorned his funeral-pyre;  Rare gums and spices fed the fire,  Perfumes and every precious thing;  And songs were sung, and prayers were prayed,  And priests danced jubilant all day.  But prone the king Ma-anda lay,  With ashes on his royal crest,  And groaned, and beat upon his breast,  And called on Kintu loud and wild:  "Father, come back, forgive thy child!"  Bitter the cry, but vain, all vain;  The grieved god came not again.