Part XII

The boy had grown to be a youth, the youth
To manhood grew. Year after year rolled on,
They came and went without a "farewell'' e'en.
Nor did the years spare him; each year that came
Left traces on his face and on his heart.

Long, long ago he had finished his schools,
The great world he had entered. There he was,
Amidst life and amongst men, in the crowd
Where at each step of his he gets a knock,
And each knock wipes the pollen off of life
And wipes the healthy color from man's face.

The world howe'er, to him seemed not to be
The kind he thought the great, wide world would be.
It shrunk each day. Men whom the Lord had made
In his own image were depraved and vile.
Man who should boldly look into the height,
Looks to the dust of earth as if to learn
From insects how the crawl and how to creep.
But still, the smaller seemed to him the man:
The greater was the work himself assumed
To be his mission and which to fulfill
In time, undaunted did his task, though small, —
As small as is the labor of the ant, —
But just as active as that insect he.
The narrow circle which was his he filled
Completely with the brightness of his soul.
His virtues and the keenness of his mind,
While yet at school had made a name for him
And when his course of studies finished were
From many great ones flattering offers came.
They said to him: "Come and my servant be,
To serve a man like me is itself
A glorious thing. You bend your knee to me,
'Tis true, but thousands have to bow to you.
You"ll have naught else to do than to oppress
These thousands and from them to get the most.
'Tis easy work and you'll grow rich and great."

Sylvester gratefully declined the call.

He said: "That I might have serfs of mine own
I wouldn't the servant of another be.
I want no fellow man to bow to me
I know no man who greater is than I.
And I refuse my knees to bend to you.
I know no man who smaller is than I,
And as to wealth — I do not care for it,
I surely do not want it as the price
Of my oppressing my dear fellowmen."
Thus did he speak, and though he bared his head,

He stood erect and proudly faced the man.

The high position tendered, he declined...
There came to him a few pour country folk
Inviting him to come to live with them
And to become their Village-Notary.
Contented, and most happy to accept,
He went into that village and when there

The poor inhabitants surrounded him
While he, with flaming eyes, adressed them thus:
"Hail, hail to thee, majestic people! List,
Look full into my eye! I'll be to you
A teacher and a loving father, too.
E'er since your birth yon were taught to obey.
That duty's chains are strong was all you knew,
I will instruct you in your legal rights."
And he fulfilled the promise he had made.
Thenceforth, the peasant folk, their labor done,
Did not, as since time immemorial,
Go to the village-inn, but went to him.
The town-hall square became their meeting place.
They listened to their youthful Notary ;
The hoary man were taught by the mere youth,
They listened more attentively to him
Than to their priest, they understood him best,
And what they learned the old folks taught their

boys.
The village people held him in esteem.

Two houses, though, were in that village, where
Instead of blessings called upon his head.
The young apostle was constantly cursed.
One of these houses that in which the squire,
The other that in which the priest resides:
They are the Castle and the Parish house.
From day to day our young apostle grew
More hated and more feared by squire and priest.
The two conspired his fall to bring about.
They saw, that they themselves are doomed, were he
Allowed to mould the people's intellect.

Up in the castle, though, there was a soul
Who felt for him the same esteem as did
The populace; to whom to hear him praised
Was joy and who felt pained was he abused.
Who was this soul who recognized his worth,
And rightly judged him and his splendid work?

Who was this somebody? Who could it be,
But she, the beauteous daughter of the squire?
Who else could it have been? A woman's heart
Is a most glorious harbor. It is closed
Against all selfish thoughts, altough by stealth
Or force it might have even entered there,
That heart though 's ope for all that is sublime
And sweet. Be persecuted innocence
Exiled form everywhere, within her heart
It always finds a port of welcome rest.
A woman's heart's indeed a glorious home.
The youth did not suspect at all that he
By some one's looked upon with kindly eyes,
Has in the castle one fair patroness.
From time to time he saw the maiden fair
When through the village she her way would take,
Or when she from her windows looked upon
The place beneath, and when he saw the maid
A sense of loneliness would fill his heart.
And musingly he would speak to himself:
"A man is not a citizen alone, a
"He also is a man. Must he devote
"His life forever to the public weal
"And never know life's bliss in his own life?
Poor boy! Willt thou e'er live thy own sweet life?
"Thou spread'st thy soul amongst thy fellow men,
"Will ever there be one who'll give her soul
"To thee, or give thereof a share, or deign
"To look upon thee with a friendly smile .
"So that thou may'st surmise at least that life
"Can really happy be? For love athirst
"A summer day's rain cannot quench, alas,
"Not e'en a drop of dew gives me relief.
"Do not rebel against thy fate, poor boy,
"And bravely bear thy yoke, if thou but giv'st
"To those around thee bliss: thou hast done well.
"Be like the earth which grows the golden grain
"By others reaped. Be like the burning wick

"Which by the waning of its life spreads light."
Ill or good fortune brought it once about
That she once met the youth and spoke to him.
They met but for a moment and exchanged
A word or two; that's all, and yet thenceforth
They often met; who knows? was it mere chance?
Was it intent? The two themselves knew not.
All unawares their meetings grew more long,
More confidential too, altough the two
Of their own selves would never speak a word.
However once, — the youth e'en did not know
Had she been asking it or did he speak
Unasked, — impulsively, — he told the maid
The story of his life; how lonely he,
Forsaken and alone; he never had
A brother or a friend, was never called
"My son", "my boy", and how he had been found.
Out in the street by one who was a thief,
How then a beggar-wench adopted him,
And how he then became a servant mean.
His early years thus passed: he stole, he begged,
Did menial work. He spoke then of the woe
And agony that weighed upon his soul
W,hile growing up: more awful even were
These than the days of yore. The retrospect —
It seemed he looked Into a putrid pool-
Made his own soul to overflow with pain.
Hot burnings tears he shed, as sheds its blood
An army beaten on the battlefield...
And she, the maiden, also wept with him.