Yet, your Chrysostom, you praised him,
With his liberal mouth of gold;
And your Basil, you upraised him
To the height of speakers old:
And we both praised Heliodorus
For his secret of pure lies;-
Who forged first his linked stories
In the heat of ladies' eyes.

Do you mind that deed of Até
Which you bound me to so fast,-
Reading "De Virginitate,"

From the first line to the last?
How I said at ending, solemn,

As I turned and looked at you,, That St. Simeon on the column

Had had somewhat less to do?

For we sometimes gently wrangled;
Very gently be it said,—
Since our thoughts were disentangled
By no breaking of the thread!
And I charged you with extortions
On the nobler fames of old-
Ay, and sometimes thought your Porsons
Stained the purple they would fold.

For the rest a mystic moaning

Kept Cassandra at the gate,

With wild eyes the vision shone in-
And wide nostrils scenting fate.

And Prometheus, bound in passion
By brute force to the blind stone,
Showed us looks of invocation

Turned to ocean and the sun.

And Medea we saw burning

At her nature's planted stake; And proud Edipus fate-scorning

While the cloud came on to breakWhile the cloud came on slow-slower, Till he stood discrowned, resigned!But the reader's voice dropped lower When the poet called him BLIND!

Ah, my gossip! you were older,
And more learned, and a man!—

Yet that shadow-the enfolder

Of your quiet eyelids-ran

Both our spirits to one level,

And I turned from hill and lea,
And the summer sun's green revel,—
To your eyes that could not see.

Now Christ bless you with the one light
Which goes shining night and day!
May the flowers which grow in sunlight
Shed their fragrance in your way!
Is it not right to remember

All your kindness, friend of mine,
When we two sat in the chamber,

And the poets poured us wine?

So, to come back to the drinking
Of this Cyprus,—it is well-

But those memories, to my thinking,
Make a better œnomel;

And whoever be the speaker,

None can murmur with a sigh—
That, in drinking from that beaker,
I am sipping like a fly.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

"So the dreams depart,

So the fading phantoms flee,

And the sharp reality

Now must act its part.'

Westwood's "Beads from a Rosary.”

LITTLE Ellie sits alone

'Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side, on the grass:
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face

She has thrown her bonnet by;
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow-
Now she holds them nakedly

In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,

And the smile she softly useth

Fills the silence like a speech,

While she thinks what shall be done,And the sweetest pleasure chooseth

For her future within reach!

Little Ellie in her smile

Chooseth . . . . "I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!

He shall love me without guile;

And to him I will discover

That Swan's Nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble,

With an eye that takes the breath,-
And the lute he plays upon

Shall strike ladies into trouble,

As his sword strikes men to death.

"And the steed, it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind
And the hoofs, along the sod,
Shall flash onward in a pleasure,
Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face! He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes