himself in the pine-scented shipyard, amid the tattoo of
the mallets;
Or he leaned on the rail of the bridge, letting his thoughts flow with
the whispering river;
He hearkened also to ancient tales, and made them young again with his
singing.

Then a flaming arrow of death fell on his flock, and pierced the heart
of his dearest!
Silent the music now, as the shepherd entered the mystical temple of
sorrow:
Long he tarried in darkness there: but when he came out he was singing.

And I saw the faces of men and women and children silently turning toward
him;
The youth setting out on the journey of life, and the old man waiting
beside the last mile-stone;
The toiler sweating beneath his load; and the happy mother rocking her
cradle;

The lonely sailor on far-off seas; and the gray-minded scholar in his
book-room;
The mill-hand bound to a clacking machine; and the hunter in the forest;
And the solitary soul hiding friendless in the wilderness of the city;

Many human faces, full of care and longing, were drawn irresistibly
toward him,
By the charm of something known to every heart, yet very strange and
lovely,
And at the sound of his singing wonderfully all their faces were
lightened.

"Why do you listen, O you people, to this old and world-worn music?
This is not for you, in the splendour of a new age, in the democratic
triumph!
Listen to the clashing cymbals, the big drums, the brazen trumpets of
your poets."

But the people made no answer, following in their hearts the simpler
music:
For it seemed to them, noise-weary, nothing could be better worth the
hearing
Than the melodies which brought sweet order into life's confusion.

So the shepherd sang his way along, until he came unto a mountain:
And I know not surely whether the mountain was called Parnassus,
But he climbed it out of sight, and still I heard the voice of one
singing.

January, 1907.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

I

BIRTHDAY VERSES, 1906

Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
Have brought another _Festa_ round to you,
You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise
From friends the fleeting years have bound to you.

Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy,
Prudence, and