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 gems,
The spoil of conquered monarchs' diadems :
Great pearls, milk-white, and shining like the
Emeralds, grass-green, sapphires, like skies of June,
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 arose,
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,
But ere she could it made a sudden stand,
And thrust the priceless ruby in her hand,
And sailing swiftly through the cottage door
Mounted the morning sky, and came no more!
I think about the dead by day,
I dream of them at night;
They seem to stand beside my chair,
Clad in the clothes they used to wear,
And by my bed in white.
The commonplaces of their lives,
The lightest words they said,
Revive in me, and give me pain,
And make me wish them back again,
Or wish that I were dead.
I would be kinder to them now,
Were they alive once more;
Would kiss their cheeks, and kiss their hair,
And love them, like the angels there,
Frank Bottome.
THE OLD BOOK AND THE NEW.
He closed the book and made it fast,
The Master, whose I am;
And on the record of the past
He put my single name.
I prayed Him just to let me look
Its careless pages o'er ;
But, "No!" He said, "what's in the book
And then, along the line of years,
I saw the volumes stand;
I knew them all-through blinding tears
I recognized my hand.
Oh, could I but erase some deeds!
Some pages blank could fill !
"Nay, nay," He said, "for all is sealed
To judgment, good or ill.
"The past is past; no vain regrets
Can change a single line;
His hand, who time and judgment sets,
Puts this new book in thine.
Take it, thou hast no choice, 't is thine,
Nor canst thou aught conceal,
For conscience keeps a sleepless shrine,
And all things will reveal.
"T is not the deed which thou hast wrought Should make thee hope or fear ;
But that thyself-thy will-thy thought
Makes certain record there.
Each day but marks thee what thou art,-
God's balances are just ;
Not weight of deeds, but weight of heart,
And worth of simple trust.
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