io8 A BOOK OF MORTALS 



through the moss beside us, is as Sir Galahad on his quest, 

 and the bird crossing the blue sky overhead is as the angel 

 of Bethlehem. 



" Oh, cup-bearer ! save the cup of Life what gift canst 

 thou bring ? " sings the Persian poet, sunk in his sweet 

 halcyon sleep among the roses and the bulbuls. 



" JVhen Zeus gives the unsdom of calm / " 



Ah ! How seldom he gives it in this work-a-day world ! 



But for all our brief glimpses into the peace beyond, 

 for all the self-forgetfulness of Love, and Music, and Poetry 

 and Art the Halcyon stands sponsor. 



" Is it thou, dear one ? " we cry, our new-found wings 

 uplifting us for the moment. " Is it thou " 



Art, Music, Poetry, everything which sends our souls 

 flitting over the Shadowy Sea seeking our lost life, is sym- 

 bolised by the little blue and green bird which we see for 

 an instant glowing turquoise and emerald, in the sunlight 

 and shade of some wooded river reach, ere it dives into the 

 golden brown of the stream. Quaint little bird ! Giving 

 its lustrous jewelled skin even now-a-days as a weather-cock 

 to cottages in remote country districts, though, for the most 

 part, the world has forgotten the fable on which Socrates 

 and Theocritus spent their wisdom. 



Yet the simple story of the great Peace which comes to 

 the whole world with the Great Quest, is one which is re- 

 told to every loving heart. Aye ! even to those who, 

 wandering ever over the crested waves, dare not say whether 

 they meet the uplifted lips of the Beloved, or whether it is 

 but the ceaseless pulsing of the endless sea which brings to 

 them the kiss of peace. 



