Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few-
Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come,-at last it will,-
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red-—
And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me-
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seemed full as it could hold

There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So, hush,—I will give you this leaf to keep

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.

There, that is our secret! go to sleep;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.

IF old Bacchus were the speaker,
He would tell you, with a sigh,

Of the Cyprus in this beaker
I am sipping like a fly,-
Like a fly or gnat on Ida

At the hour of goblet-pledge,

By queen Juno brushed aside, a

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler,
When the drink is so divine:
And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler
Would become your Cyprus wine!
Cyclop's mouth might plunge aright in,
While his one eye over-leered—
Not too large were mouth of Titan,
Drinking rivers down his beard.

Pan might dip his head so deep in,
That his ears alone pricked out,
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping,
Each one pointing to his throat:
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes

Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, Cry,-"O earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste!"

But for me, I am not worthy

After gods and Greeks to drink; And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink. Since you heard them speak the last time, They have faded from their blooms,

And the laughter of my pastime

Has learnt silence at the tombs.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers

Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow.

Can I answer the old thinkers

In the forms they thought of, now? Who will fetch from garden-closes

Some new garlands while I speak, That the forehead, crowned with roses, May strike scarlet down the cheek?

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed!
I am sad-voiced as the turtle,

Which Anacreon used to feed;
Yet as that same bird demurely
Wet her beak in cup of his,-
So, without a garland, surely

I may touch the brim of this.

Go!-let others praise the Chian!-
This is soft as Muses' string-

This is tawny as Rhea's lion,

This is rapid as its spring,-
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us,
Light as ever trod her feet!
And the brown bees of Hymettus
Make their honey not so sweet.

Very copious are my praises,

Though I sip it like a fly!-
Ah-but, sipping,-times and places
Change before me suddenly-
As Ulysses' old libation

Drew the ghosts from every part,
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian,
Stirs the Hades of my heart.

And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings,

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. Past the pane, the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading Somewhat low for au's and ot's.

Then what golden hours were for us!--
While we sate together there,
How the white vests of the chorus

Seemed to wave up a live air!
How the cothurns trod majestic

Down the deep iambic lines; And the rolling anapastic

Curled like vapour over shrines!

Oh, our Eschylus, the thunderous!
How he drove the bolted breath
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous
In the gnarled oak beneath.

Oh, our Sophocles, the royal,

Who was born to monarch's placeAnd who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace.

Our Euripides, the human

With his droppings of warm tears; And his touches of things common, Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion,

And our Pindar's shining goals!These were cup-bearers undying

Of the wine that's meant for souls.

And my Plato, the divine one,-
If men know the gods aright
By their motions, as they shine on
With a glorious trail of light!—
And your noble Christian bishops,
'Who mouthed grandly the last Greek:
Though the sponges on their hyssops
Were distent with wine-too weak.