there is pity's need;
And no man born,
For cruelty or greed
Escapes that scorn.

Most of all things, it seems,
He loves the town.
Watching the bright-faced streams
Go up and down,

I have surprised him often
On Tremont street,
And marked the grave face soften,
The mouth grow sweet,

In a brown study over
The men and women.
An unsuspected rover
That, for our Common.

When the first jonquils come,
And spring is sold
On the street corners, some
Of the pretty gold

Is sure to find its way
Home in his hand.
And many a winter day
At some cab-stand,

He'll watch the cabmen feed
The pigeon flocks,
Or bid some liner speed
From the icy docks.

His rooms? I much regret
You cannot see
His rooms, but they were let
With guarantee

Of his seclusion there--
Except myself.
Each morning, table, chair,
Lamp, hearth, and shelf,

I rearrange, refreshen,
Put all to rights,
Then leave him in possession.
Ah, but the nights,

The nights! Sir, if I dared
But once set eye
To keyhole, nor be scared,
From playing Paul Pry,

I doubt not I should learn
A wondrous thing
Or two; and in return
Go blind till spring.

The light under his door
Is glory enough,
It outshines any star
That I know of.

Wirrah, my lad, my lad,
'T is fearsome strange,
The hints we all have had
Passing the range

Of science, knowledge, law,
Or what you will,
Whose intangible touch of awe
Makes reason nil.

Many a night I start,
Sudden awake,
Feeling my smothered heart
Flutter and quake;

Like an aspen at dead of noon,
When not a breath
Is stirring to trouble the boon
Valley. A wraith

Or a fetch, it must be, shivers
The soul of the tree
Till every leaf of it quivers.
And so with me.

Was it the shuffle of feet
I heard go by,
With muffled drums in the street?
Was it the cry

Of a rider riding the night
Into ashes and dawn,
With news in his nostrils and fright
Where his hoof-beats had gone?

Did the pipes, at "Bonny Dundee,"
Bid regiments form?
Did a renegade's soul get free
On a wail of the storm?

Did a flock of wild geese honk
As they cleared the hill?
Or only a bittern cronk,
Then all was still?

Was it a night stampede
Of a thousand head?
I know I shook like a reed
There on my bed.

Nameless and void and wild
Was the fear before me,
Ere I bethought me and smiled
As the truth flashed o'er me.

Of course, it was only his hand
Freeing the bass
Of his old Amati, grand
In the silence' face.

Ru