class="stanza">WHEN in Bohemia there were kings and queens,
The crown was laid upon the head that had
To bear and to exalt it—on the King's,
And then upon the shoulder of the Queen.
The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden;
The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. Great
For both the heaviness, the endless pain,
For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thankless
Unending work, the sorrow of their people,
The care of each and all, the scorching tears
Of all, that make their path a desert, and
Their robe so heavy, as if dew had changed
Into the icy hangings of the frost.
The shoulder oftentimes is wounded by
The crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy,
Much heavier than all that heavy weight,
And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulder
Resist the load, and still her smiling eyes
And gentle lips make all the world believe
Her shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy,
The load they put upon her without asking
How great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile!
Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sigh
Escape your loving hearts, and no complaint
Break from the lips God made to heal and bless!
Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slaves
For looking overworked. If thou canst bear
No more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!

DOWN THE STREAM

FROM whence the brook? From where the waters gather
In mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakes
And dripping crevices. It ripples forth
Into the shining day with scarce a voice,
And with no strength at all, till mountain showers
And winter's snow and spring storms pour their flood
Into the dancing brook, that foams and starts
And rushes headlong down the steeps and throws
Into the Unknown all its youth and strength,
And thunders into hell, to rise again
In sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils,
To kiss the flowers' feet and overflow
The meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastened
To wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise,
To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic,
And work till doomsday. On and on the stream
Goes widening into calm and mighty strength,
A hero of a stream, that bears the ships
Like toys, and carries legions.
Wider still
He grows, and stronger, as he drags the waters
Of hundred rivers with him to the sea.
At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow,
A living death, till, blended with the sea,
A rising tide will carry him away
Into oblivion. Such is life! A stream
From unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall,
Through unknown land and never-ending work
Unto Eternity's great, unknown sea.
You cannot rise above the height you come from,
You only widen and expand—but downwards,—
Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.
And then the world will call you great and grand,
And make a fortune out of all those waters:
Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;
The strength of all your aims and all your falls!

IN THE RUSHING WIND

THE wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.
The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,
And lie a golden heap or fly away,
As if the butterflies had left their wings
Behind, when love's short summertime had gone,
And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower
Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves
Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,
That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,
That never-ending burial-place of leaves.
And then the wind will shake and bend the tree,
And twist its branches off, burst it asunder,
Uproot the giant and bring low his head,
Upheave the granite block round which the roots
Had taken hold for countless centuries.
On goes the wind! The corn is green and soft—
Earth's wavy fur. It does but ripple lightly
In childish laughter at the harmless fun
That was a death-blow. But the sea awakes
And frowns and foams and rises into anger
So wild with wrath, and yet so powerless,
As if a thousand chains had chained it down,
To howl, to suffer, to rebel against
The heartless merriment of stronger powers.
On goes the wind, to shake the rock, to blow
Into a flame, the wild incendiary,
And never doth he look behind, to see,
To feel, to understand the horror he
Hath worked. The breath—the robe of Destiny—
Sweeps on, sweeps past, and never lists that hell
And heaven have awaked, in shrieking