O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran, At last a servant heard a stranger speak He spoke but little, if they pleased, he said, He'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed. So by his side he sat, serene and calm, His very accents soft as healing balm ; Not curious seemed, but every movement spied, His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to glide; Asked a few questions, - what he felt, and where? "A pain just here," "A constant beating there." Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails? "Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles." What was the last prescription in his case? "A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase." Had he no secret grief he nursed alone? A pause; a little tremor; answer, - "None." Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech, And muttered "Eros!" in his native speech. In the broad atrium various friends await Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er, At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face, Some strange enchantment mingled in the case, And naught would serve to act as counter-charm Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm. Not every maiden's, many might be tried; Which not in vain, experience must decide. Were there no damsels willing to attend The message passed among the waiting crowd, First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud. Though all were saints, at least professed to be, — The list all counted, there were named but three. The leech, still seated by the patient's side, Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl. In vain, O daughter! said the baffled Greek. The pallium heaves above his leaping heart; Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! Ask not the Gods, O youth, for clearer sight, But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye, And learn this secret from the tale of old: No love so true as love that dies untold. A MOTHER'S SECRET. How sweet the sacred legend - if unblamed Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy! Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song! They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o'er,- Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn, Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn; On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground; In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid! The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, Told how the shining multitude proclaimed 66 Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn! In David's city Christ the Lord is born! 'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high, 'Good will to men!' the listening earth reply! They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. No trembling word the mother's joy revealed, One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed; |