For softness, and their weak faint sounds, so, talking on the tower,

These seniors of the people sat; who, when they saw the power

Of beauty, in the queen, ascend, even those coldspirited peers,

Those wise and almost wither'd men, found this heat in their years,

That they were forced (through whispering) to say: "What man can blame

The Greeks and Trojans to endure, for so admired a dame,

So many miseries and so long? In her sweet countenance shine

Looks like the Godesses. And yet (though never so divine)

Before we boast, unjustly still, of her enforced prize, And justly suffer for her sake, with all our progenies,

Labor and ruin, let her go; the profit of our land Must pass the beauty." Thus, though these could bear so fit a hand

On their affections, yet, when all their gravest powers were used,

They could not choose but welcome her, and rather they accused

The gods than beauty.

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

-From "Iliad III."

HELEN'S EPITHALAMION.

LIKE as the rising morning shows a grateful lightening,

When sacred night is past and winter now lets loose the spring,

So glittering Helen shined among the maids, lusty and tall.

As is the furrow in a field that far outstretcheth all,
Or in a garden is a Cypress tree, or in a trace
A steed of Thessaly, so she to Sparta was a grace.
No damsel with such works as she her baskets used
to fill,

Nor in a diverse colored web a woof of greater skill
Doth cut from off the loom; nor any hath such

songs and lays

Unto her dainty harp, in Dian's and Minerva's

praise,

As Helen hath, in whose bright eyes all loves and graces be.

O, fair, O, lovely maid! A matron now is made of thee;

But we will every spring unto the leaves in meadows

go

To gather garlands sweet, and there, not with a

little woe,

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Will often think of thee, O, Helen, as the sucking lambs

Desire the strouting bags and presence of their tender dams.

We all betimes for thee a wreath of Melitoe will knit,

And on a shady plane for thee will safely fasten it, And all betimes for thee, under a shady plane below,

Out of a silver box the sweetest ointment will bestow;

And letters shall be written in the bark that men may see

And read, Do humble reverence, for I am Helen's tree. SIR EDWARD DYER.

-From the "Sixe Idillia."

HELEN OF TROY.

HELEN, Helen, white-armed Helen,

From the shadows come again. Leap from death and dust to being, Tread again the paths of men! Let me see thee, sweet enchanter, From that life come back to this. Clasp me closely to thy bosom, Which a god would gladly kiss.

Trojan Helen, if thy spirit

Still for love can yearn and burn, If beyond thy peaceful ashes,

Fondly treasured in the urn, Still thy sacred shade can cherish,

Aught of thought if thou canst give, Grant that hate at last may perish And that love alone may live.

Star-eyed Helen, thou whose beauty

Could charm even gods and Greeks; Thou whose passion was perfection; Thou whose spirit even speaks! Grant that, when beyond the shadow Of each earthly grief and joy,

I may see thee, bright and beauteous, As thou wast of old in Troy.

Trojan Helen, at thy story,

All my love burns bright and free; If a god enthroned in glory,

I would leave a heaven for thee! Won by Greece's fairest woman,

Dare we deem such love defiled? He whose eyes had gazed on Venus

Looked into thine own and smiled.

Trojan Helen, queenly Helen!

Fools have called thee "fond and frail," But thy beauty, soft and silent,

Could bid mightiest monarchs quail. Stern Achilles from his anger

Would have rested, and his arms

From his hands had fallen idle,

Had he gazed upon thy charms.

Stately Helen, fairer, fonder

Than all Greek and Trojan dames, Though for thee long years were wasted Ere proud Ilium fell in flames; Though thy "fatal gift of beauty"

Caused brave blood to flow like wine, Thou art still the first and fairest In the "tale of Troy divine."

Ever turning and returning,
Like Ixion on the wheel;
Ever burning, ever yearning,
Some still sweeter thrill to feel.
So I seem to see thee soaring
To and fro in Stygian shade,
Ever seeking for a passion

In which thine may be allayed.

Trojan Helen, through the ages

Come thy stately form and brow; In the dawn of history's morning Thou wast not more fair than now. I seem with thee in the spirit, Seem to feel thy burning breath. All the ages are as nothingLove can conquer Time and Death.

Side by side with golden Venus

On a dazzling diamond throne, Thou dost rule the realms of beauty As if death were all unknown. Of thee still, oh, stately Helen!

Life must claim the greater part, For thy soul was all affection,

All thy thoughts were of the heart.

Thou dost greet the growing passion
Which the happy heart conceals,
And the joy of glowing genius,
When creating what it feels.
Thus thy subtle spirit enters

Every gift that love would give,

And thy life is thus united

Unto all that love and live.

FRED SHELLEY RYMAN.

SINGLE POEMS.

BALLADE OF QUEEN CLYTIE.

THE ladye leans on the dial's rim (Clytie's flowers are gold and brown), Faint winds sigh, and the skies are dim (Ways grow dark as the sun goes down).

"Yesternight as I slept," she said

(Sound the sweet, shut daisies sleep), "Gold wings rustled around my bed

(Golden dreams for a slumber deep).

"Strange and sweet was my dream," saith she
(Red-gold rays for a bridal crown);
"Soon (be sure) he will come for me,"
(Shining towers to my true-love's town).

Knights and nobles from every land
(Ways are wide, and the sea spreads far)
Seek her service and crave her hand

(Cold and fair is the morning-star).

Comes a king from the far North-lands,
Steed and surcoat as white as snow;
White stones flash on his charger's bands
(Skies are white when the north winds blow).

Next, a suitor of scanty speed,

The king of South-lands, ambles slow,

Half asleep on a yellow steed,

Crowned with hyacinths all ablow.

Speeds a king from the fierce East-land,
Riding fast on a coal-black horse,
Red robes whirling like desert sand:
"Now the maiden shall yield perforce!"

Rides a king from the purple West,
Lord of many a goodly deed;
Plates of amethyst clasp his breast,
Rich stufis cover her red-roan steed.

Each one seeks her for Queen and bride;
Swift she lifteth her eyes to them,
Slow and silent she turns aside,

Veils her face with her mantle's hem. "Where is he that should come," saith she, "Where is the youth of my goodly dream? None but him may I wed, pardie

(Gold that dazzles and locks that gleam).

"Gold rays stole through his shining hair (Clytie's flowers are gold and brown);

O for the light of his face most fair! (Ways grow dark as the sun goes down).

"Fair and sweet is my garden-space

(Tall, white poppies and gold-buds blown): Still I watch for my true-love's face."

(Wan, gray moss on the dial-stone).

Each one sighs as he bends him low (Every king for his own countriè!). "Fortune favor the ways ye go"

(Pleasant and fair is courtesiè!).

Rose-leaves fall to the bare, brown ground-
Faint and fall as the long days die,
Still she watches the hours creep round
(Dear the gleam of a golden sky!).

Winds moan shrill in the garden-space
(Sodden flowers in the slow gray rain),
White and still is the Ladye's face

(Wet, dead leaves on a leaded pane).

Make her grave so it face the west

(Clytie's flowers are gold and brown), Close her eyes for the sweet night's rest (Ways grow dark as the sun goes down). GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

TO HIM WHO WAITS.

MANY a castle I've built in Spain,

With turrets and domes that were passing fair, But the first wild storm of wind and rain

Has proved me my castles were made of air.

Many a fleet I've sent to sea,

Freighted with hopes and ambitions bright; Never a ship has come back to me,

Though I have watched for them long by day and night.

But I sometimes think there will come a day
When my heart's fond wishes I shall attain—
When, walled and towered in grand array,
Shall stand secure my castles in Spain.

And I look to see the sunset's glow,

As it reddens the ocean miles on miles, Shine on the ships that sailed long ago— My ships coming back from the Fortunate Isles. EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.

SONGS UNSUNG.

SWEET the song of the thrush at dawning,
When the grass lies wet with the spangled dew,
Sweet the sound of the brook's low whisper,
'Mid reeds and rushes wandering through;
Clear and pure as the west wind's murmur
That croons in the branches all day long;
But the songs unsung are the sweetest music,

And the dreams that die are the soul of song.

The fairest hope is the one which faded,

The brightest leaf is the leaf that fell; The song that leaped from the lips of sirens Dies away in an old sea shell. Far to the heights of viewless fancy

The soul's swift flight like a swallow goes, For the note unheard is the bird's best carol, And the bud unblown is the reddest rose. Deepest thoughts are the ones unspoken, That only the heart-sense, listening, hears; Most great joys bring a touch of silence, Greatest grief is in unshed tears. What we hear is the fleetest echo;

A song dies out, but a dream lives on; The rose-red tints of the rarest morning

Are lingering yet in a distant dawn.

Somewhere, dim in the days to follow, And far away in the life to be, Passing sweet, is a song of gladness,

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The spirit chant of the soul set free. Chords untouched are the ones that we wait for, That never rise from the harp unstrung: We turn our steps to the years beyond us, And listen still for the songs unsung; ERNEST MCGAFFEY.

THE FATED BRIDE.

Down by the river bank, green and shady,
Through the valley ride court and king,
Serf and sycophant, lord and lady,
Quaffing the breath of the scented spring.
Coy birds lurk in the tangled bushes,

Daisies peep from the verdant mold, Delicate May blossoms hide their blushes Under the leaves that the sun turns gold.

And gayly the glittering pageant passes,
Flashing with crimson and purple dyes,
Over the wealth of the bending grasses,
Under the blue of the cloudless skies.
Merry the canter, and light the laughter
That rings from the lips of the courtier throng,
Sudden and silvery following after

The bluebird's call and the finch's song.

Only the king, with sad eyes drooping,
Warily, wearily rides apart,
Over the mane of his palfrey stooping,
Musing thus in his inmost heart:
"Love, my love, shall I find you ever,

Bride, my bride, whom I seek in vain,

Through lands that sunder and years that sever, Through nights of vigil and days of pain?

"I shall know you, dear, by your golden tresses,
And gentle voice that is sweet and low,
And soft eyes shining with tendernesses;
Oh, love, my love, have I far to go?
Wind, have you met with my soul's ideal,

In the glad sweet south you have wandered o'er?
Shall I clasp her, cling to her, find her real?”
But the wind just rustles the leaves-no more.

Yet who is this by the wayside sitting,

Where waters murmur and green boughs meet, Where bees are humming and birds are flitting, And the scent of a hundred flowers is sweet! A girl's lithe form that the leaves half cover, A wavy shimmer of shining hair That rolls, and ripples, and mantles over

The slender arms that are brown and bare.

A scant gown, tattered and torn, and frayed in Long leagues of travel by mount and plain; And the courtiers smile at the beggar maiden,

Who shrinks abashed from the dazzling train; But the king leaps down from his charger lightly, With glad cheeks glowing and eyes on fire; Though her lot be lowly, her garb unsightly, He knows the face of his soul's desire.

"My love!" he whispers. O, blest the wooing
That's brief a-doing when hearts are kin.
The maiden lists to the monarch's suing,
For a king is a goodly mate to win.
The sweet face flushes, the faint lips murmur,
But fall and quiver and speak no word;
"My wife!" he cries, when her voice grows firmer,
And straight she answers, "My king, my lord!"
WALTER CRANE.

BETTINA MAZZI.

"OH! who will scale the belfry tower

And cut that banner down?

All broken is the Austrian power;

They gallop from the town;

And surely 'tis an idle taunt,

With this day's victory gained, To let your painted falsehood flauntThe very sky seems stained!"

So spoke the Duke. Around he glanced
To see that each rank heard;
But every eye was on the ground,
No single soldier stirred;

The shattered belfry timbers shake;

The highest spire of all,

Beneath a dove's weight might it break, And seven-score feet down-fall.

Each thought: "Cut down by hand that flag? Foolhardy were the deed,

When one three-pounder snaps its staff

As breaks a withered reed!"
But just as silence grew to shame,
And none would lift his face,
A sunburned child, her face aflame,
Stood forth before his Grace.

She courtesied, gave a hasty glance
To where the flag flew high,
Then, stammering, she said, “My Lord,
May I-have leave-to try?"

"You, child?" he mocked. "By Mars, you come To school the veterans grim!

And your reward?" "Those two fair plumes
That shade your beaver's brim.”

Loud rang his laugh: "So be it! Climb!
The plumes are yours—if won.”
She darts across the street as fleet
As swallow in the sun;

The church-door clashes at her back;
She rushes up the stair,
Against the sky, in the belfry high,
See, see her standing there!

And now she slips up to the leads;
The crowd all hold their breath;
Higher and higher slow she mounts,
One step 'twixt her and death.
Along that narrow dormer's edge,
Up to the broken ball;

Oh, shattered joist and splintered beam,
Let not the brave child fall!

And now she grasps the slender staff;
Then slowly, gently, see!

The flag begins to sink. Good cord,

Do thy work faithfully!

The pulley turns-the rope runs smooth

Down, down, the gay folds glide

Along the quivering pole, until

They hang her hand beside.

Close gathered, look! she cuts their bond,
Her scissors flashing fair;

Then lightly pushed from where she clings,
They drop, plump, to the square;
But no man thought to raise his cheer

Until, oh, blessed chance!

They see her clamber down and safe
From the church steps advance.

Oh, then, what shoutings came from all,

To honor such a deed!

Up the old street at the Duke's side

She rides his pacing steed,

A priest, a prince, a lord, a maid,
Faces of grief and sin,

A high-born lady and a jade,
A harlequin;

Two lines of ghosts in masquerade,
Who push her where they will,
As if it were the wind that swayed
A daffodil.

She sings, she weeps, she smiles, she sighs,
Looks cruel, sweet, or base;

The features of her fathers rise
And haunt her face.

As if it were the wind that swayed
Some stately daffodil,

Upon her face they masquerade

And work their will.

FREDERICK K. PETERSON.

RECONTRE.

TOILING across the Mer de Glace,
I thought of, longed for thee;
What miles between stretched, alas!
What miles of land and sea!

My foe, undreamed of, at my side
Stood suddenly, like Fate.

For those who love, the world is wide,
But not for those who hate.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

CURRENT POEMS.

THE SONNET.

FOURTEEN small, baleful berries on the hem
Of Circe's mantle, all of greenest gold;
Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that roll'd
Into the sea, for pearls to come of them;
Fourteen small signs of omen in the gem
With which Medea human fate foretold;
Fourteen small drops, which Faustus, growing

old,

Craved of the Fiend to water Life's dry stem.
It is the pure-white diamond Dante brought
To Beatrice; the sapphire Laura wore
When Petrarch cut it sparkling out of thought;
The ruby Shakespeare hewed from his heart's
core;

The dark, deep emerald that Rossetti wrought
For his own soul, to wear for evermore.
EUGENE LEE HAMILTON.

-London Academy.

TIME AND ETERNITY.

"O, MIGHTY weariness of yellow sands! O, surging ocean of Eternity!

I bow abjectly at the thought of thee. My tiny span is naught. My aged hands Quiver, impatient of divine commands And of this petty hour-glass misery. Unwearied one! Thine æons yet to be!

O, scythe of pain! Alas! the low marsh lands!" So spake poor Father Time, and bowed his head, Spurning in bitterness the race of men;

A solemn figure on that solemn shore, Gathering sand, scorning Earth's quick and dead; A bad mistake! For these beyond his ken Shall wed him to the æons evermore. CAROLINE D. SWAN. -The Traveler's Record, January, 1890.

THE SUN CUP.

THE earth is the cup of the sun,

That he filleth at morning with wine, With the strong warm wine of his might, From the vintage of gold and of light, Fills it and makes it divine.

And at night, when his journey is done, At the gate of his radiant hall

He setteth his lips to the brim, With a long last look of his eye, And tilts it, and draineth it dry, Drains till he leaveth it all

Hollow, and empty, and dim.