When I no more may go,

As one who treads on air,

To string-notes soft and slow,

By maids found sweet and fair;—

When I no more may be

Of Love's blithe company ;—

When I no more may sit

Within thine own pleasànce,

To weave, in sentence fit,

Thy golden dalliance;

When other hands than these

Record thy soft decrees ;

Leave me at least to sing

About thine outer wall,

To tell thy pleasuring,

Thy mirth, thy festival;

Yea, let my swan-song be

Thy grace, thy sanctity.

[Here ended Andre's words:

But One, that writeth, saithBetwixt his stricken chords

He heard the wheels of Death;

And knew the fruits Love bare
But Dead-Sea apples were.]

A TALE OF POLYPHEM E.

"THERE'S nothing new "-not that I go so far As he who also said "There's nothing true,"

Since, on the contrary, I hold there are

Surviving still a verity or two;

But, as to novelty, in my conviction,

There's nothing new,—especially in fiction.

Hence, at the outset, I make no apology,

If this my story is as old as Time,

Being, indeed, that idyll of mythology,

The Cyclops' love,-which, somewhat varied, I'm

To tell once more, the adverse Muse permitting,

In easy rhyme, and phrases neatly fitting.

"Once on a time "-there's nothing new, I said—

It may be fifty years ago or more,

Beside a lonely posting road that led

Seaward from town, there used to stand of yore, With low-built bar and old bow-window shady, An ancient Inn, "The Dragon and the Lady."

Say that by chance, wayfaring Reader mine,
You cast a shoe, and at this dusty "Dragon,"
Where beast and man were equal on the sign,

Inquired at once for Blacksmith and for flagon: The landlord showed you, while you drank your hops, A road-side break beyond the straggling shops.

And so directed, thereupon you led

Your halting roadster to a kind of pass;

This you descended with a crumbling tread,

And found the sea beneath you like a glass;

And soon, beside a building partly walled

Half hut, half cave-you raised your voice and called.

Then a dog growled ; and straightway there began

Tumult within-for, bleating with affright,

A goat burst out, escaping from the can;
And, following close, rose slowly into sight-
Blind of one eye, and black with toil and tan-
An uncouth, limping, heavy-shouldered man.

Part smith, part seaman, and part shepherd too: You scarce knew which, as, pausing with the pail Half filled with goat's milk, silently he drew

An anvil forth, and reaching shoe and nail,

Bared a red forearm, bringing into view

Anchors and hearts in shadowy tattoo.

And then he lit his fire. . . . But I dispense

Henceforth with you, my Reader, and your horse,

As being but a colourable pretence

To bring an awkward hero in perforce ;

Since this our smith, for reasons never known,

To most society preferred his own.