They found him seated with the ancient men,-- The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,-- Their bald heads glistening as they clustered near, Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. And Mary said,--as one who, tried too long, Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,-- What is this thoughtless thing which thou hast done? Lo, we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son! Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, Strange words, their sense a mystery yet unknown; Then turned with them and left the holy hill, To all their mild commands obedient still. The tale was told to Nazareth's sober men, And Nazareth's matrons told it oft again; The maids retold it at the fountain's side, The youthful shepherds doubted or denied; It passed around among the listening friends, With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown Of Joseph's son, who talked the Rabbis down. But Mary, faithful to its lightest word, Kept in her heart the sayings she had heard, Till the dread morning rent the Temple's veil, And shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale. Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall A mother's secret hope outlives them all. . . . . . . . . . . . Hushed was the voice, but still its accents thrilled The throbbing hearts its lingering sweetness filled. The simple story which a tear repays Asks not to share the noisy breath of praise. A trance-like stillness,--scarce a whisper heard, No tinkling teaspoon in its saucer stirred; A deep-drawn sigh that would not be suppressed, A sob, a lifted kerchief told the rest. "Come now, Dictator," so the lady spoke, "You too must fit your shoulder to the yoke; You'll find there's something, doubtless, if you look, To serve your purpose,--so, now take the book." "Ah, my dear lady, you must know full well, 'Story, God bless you, I have none to tell.' To those five stories which these pages hold You all have listened,--every one is told. There's nothing left to make you smile or weep,-- A few grave thoughts may work you off to sleep." THE SECRET OF THE STARS Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth, Tell the half-hinted story of thy birth, And calm the noisy champions who have thrown The book of types against the book of stone!