THE OUTCASTS by JOHN LAWSON STODDARD

The smile of God was in the air;
Enwreathed in veils of silvery hue,
The valley lay, divinely fair,
Beneath a cloudless vault of blue;
And singing, like a bird set free,
The river hurried to the sea.

Through Alpine ether, crystal clear,
The genial sun of South Tyrol
Diffused its blessed warmth and cheer,
Enriching body, mind and soul,
While music floated o'er the stream,
And made such beauty seem a dream.

Enraptured with the sun's caress
And windless warmth 'mid peaks of snow,
In careless quest of happiness
The gay world sauntered to and fro,
Or, seated on the well-kept strand,
Enjoyed the music of the band.

Upon a bench, remote from those
Whose dress betokened rank or wealth,
Sat two poor waifs, whose weary pose
Betrayed a fruitless search for health, --
An aged couple, near their end,
United, yet without a friend.

But still they bravely tried to smile,
-- So warm the sun, so fair the scene! --
They could be happy yet a while,
Ere death's cold shadow crept between;
And music's softly rhythmic flow
Recalled their youth of long ago.

"Begone!" a watchman's voice exclaimed;
"Your rustic garb is much too poor;
How comes it, you are not ashamed
In such a place to play the boor?
From company like this withdraw!
Obey the mandate of the law!"

The startled strangers meekly rose
And moved away with downcast eyes,
Too wonted to such cruel blows
To manifest the least surprise;
Too humbled to inquire why;
Too timid to attempt reply.

Poor outcasts from that joyous stage
Where well-dressed hundreds strolled at ease,
With faltering steps, and bowed with age,
They vanished slowly 'neath the trees;
But neither scanned the other's face,
For fear a falling tear to trace.

Farewell, sweet, music-laden air,
And sunshine on the sheltered strand!
I follow where that outcast pair
Are walking sadly, hand in hand;
For me your vaunted charm hath fled,
While they remain uncomforted.

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