"T was Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear

The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas, From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr,

And Syracusan times, to these

Far shores and twenty centuries later.

A ragged cap was on his head:

But-hidden thus-there was no doubting

That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting;

His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them,

And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.

His hair was all in tangled curl,

Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew,

And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,

Even here, as on the vine-clad hill,

Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands, Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I, - but among us trod

A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod,

And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting I mused upon the cry,

"Great Pan is dead!"—and all the people

Went on their ways:-and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple.

ALGERNON CHARLES

SWINBURNE.

А МАТСН.

IF love were what the rose is,

And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling,

And I your love were death, We'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather

R. H. STODDARD.

With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons,
With loving looks and treasons,
And tears of night and morrow,
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.

R. H. STODDARD. [U. s. A.]

NEVER AGAIN.

THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better,

Under manhood's sterner reign: Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet,

And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We seek it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
But it never comes again!

Each movement of the swaying lamp Shows how the vessel reels,

And o'er her deck the billows tramp, And all her timbers strain and cramp With every shock she feels;

It starts and shudders, while it burns, And in its hinged socket turns.

Now swinging slow, and slanting low,
It almost level lies:

And yet I know, while to and fro
I watch the seeming pendule go

With restless fall and rise,
The steady shaft is still upright,
Poising its little globe of light.

O hand of God! O lamp of peace!
O promise of my soul!

Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease
Amid the roar of smiting seas,

The ship's convulsive roll,
I own, with love and tender awe,
Yon perfect type of faith and law.

A heavenly trust my spirit calms, –
My soul is filled with light;
The ocean sings his solemn psalms;
The wild winds chant; I cross my palms;
Happy, as if to-night,
Under the cottage roof again,

I heard the soothing summer rain.

Mushroomed with tents, the sudden

growth of war;

The frosty autumn air, that blights and chills,

Yet brings its own full recompense therefor;

Rich colors light the leafy solitudes,

And far and near the gazer's eyes behold The oak's deep scarlet, warming all the woods,

And spendthrift maples scattering their gold.

The pale beech shivers with prophetic

woe,

THE winds that once the Argo bore
Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines,
And her hull is the drift of the deep sea
floor,

Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.
You may seek her crew in every isle,
Fair in the foam of Egean seas,
But out of their sleep no charm can wile
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.

And Priam's voice is heard no more
By windy Ilium's sea-built walls;
From the washing wave and the lonely
shore

No wail goes up as Hector falls.
On Ida's mount is the shining snow,
But Jove has gone from its brow away,
And red on the plain the poppies grow
Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?
Do they thrill the soul of the years no

more?

Gone?-in a nobler form they rise; Dead? we may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their glorious eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.

Wherever a noble deed is done,

There are the souls of our heroes stirred;
Wherever a field for truth is won,
There are our heroes' voices heard.

Their armor rings on a fairer field Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he cannot know: Lay him low!