The old man was but young, but thankless hearts They say are "sharper than the adder's tooth," And ere the Spring came, by inhuman arts The marble forehead was no longer smooth; Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts, Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth, At twenty years, they say, who knew him then, He had grown sadder than old withered men. Spring lay upon the garden--from his hand Showered the blossoms and the springing buds, The songsters sang tales of a summer land, And a new music lived upon the floods: And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand, And watched the spirit of the fields and woods, Laying in golden promise on the earth Beauties that mocked him in their very birth. The buds of spring grew withered in his grasp, The thorns lay hid beneath the rose's leaf, Leaving a poison deeper than the asp, Long as the memory of corroding grief. Rude hands tore off the petals, to unclasp Too soon the fullness of a lot so brief-- There was ingratitude in bud and flower, And rude unkindness in man's thankless power. And all the summer long the rays he gave, To cheer the weary sons of sweat and toil, Flashed back with blistering brightness from the wave, And burned like molten lava from the soil. And vainly oft the giver came to crave A shelter from the burning heat the while, Beneath the bending vines the welcome fled, And yellow harvest seldom crowned his head. They knew not, as he pressed the table seat, That he alone had spread the groaning board, They cared not that the master came to eat Where one small blessing glittered from his hoard; They knew not, cared not, how the angel's feet Have trodden in the steps of good restored-- The furrows deepened on the old man's brow, And sadly humankind had sped the plough. Autumn grew brown upon the teeming zone, Lo! here at last he should forget his pain Amid the mellow fruits around them thrown, With garners brimful of the golden grain, Men should look smiling to the giver's throne, And gentle peace sit on the loaded wain-- There was a discord when the year began, That jarred the wider as the circle ran. The wheat-sheaf grew into the curse of life, And from the stalk the burning pain distilled-- The orchard mast with the dark bane was rife, Pouring out poison as the master willed. The purple wine-grape reddened into strife, And in its shadow man by man was killed-- Poison, dark poison, rankled in the cup, Pressed to his lips foredoomed to drink it up.