The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhœcus, who had met but sorry luck, Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhœcus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, "By Venus! does he take me for a rose?" And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhœcus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhœcus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disc of the setting sun,-- And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened wellnigh unto the city's wall. Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur "Rhœcus!" close at hand: Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sighed the voice, "Oh, Rhœcus! nevermore Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, who would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart: But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, And sent'st him back to me with bruisèd wings. We spirits only show to gentle eyes. We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns the least of Nature's works Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Farewell! for thou canst never see me more." Then Rhœcus beat his breast, and groaned aloud And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!" "Alas!" the voice returned, "'t is thou art blind, Not I unmerciful; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; Only the soul hath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured "Nevermore!" And Rhœcus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze; Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth. THE FALCON. I know a falcon swift and peerless As e'er was cradled in the pine; No bird had ever eye so fearless, Or wings so strong as this of mine.