Holding himself for all devotion paid Dwelling, alas! in that fond Paradise Where no to-morrow quivers in suspense, Where scarce the changes of the sky suffice To break the soft forgetfulness of sense,Where dreams become realities; and where I willingly would leave him-did I dare. Yet for a little space it still endured, Middy, I think-he'd "Acis" on his box:- Thus there was war at once; not overt yet, For still the Child, unwilling, would not break The new acquaintanceship, nor quite forget The pleasant past; while, for his treasure's sake, The boding smith with clumsy efforts tried There are some sights pathetic; none I know More sad than this: to watch a slow-wrought mind Humbling itself, for love, to come and go Before some petty tyrant of its kind; Saddest, ah!-saddest far,—when it can do Naught to advance the end it has in view. This was at least the Cyclops' case, until, Yet still he waited, hoping-wondering if They still might come, or dreaming that he heard The sound of far-off voices on the cliff, Or starting strangely when the she-goat stirred; But nothing broke the silence of the shore, And, from that hour, the Child returned no more. Therefore our Cyclops sorrowed,—not as one The very sea seemed altered, and the shore; So that he sat "consuming in a dream," Until there came the question, "Is she gone?" And by the summit panting stood, and still, Then, in a dream, beside the "Dragon" door, The smith saw travellers standing in the sun; Then came the horn again, and three or four Looked idly at him from the roof, but One,— A Child within,-suffused with sudden shame, Thrust forth a hand, and called to him by name. Thus the coach vanished from his sight, but he Limped back with bitter pleasure in his pain; He was not all forgotten-could it be? And yet the knowledge made the memory vain ; And then he felt a pressure in his throat, What then might come of silent misery, What new resolvings then might intervene, I know not. Only, with the morning sky, The goat stood tethered on the "Dragon" green, And those who, wondering, questioned thereupon, Found the hut empty,-for the man was gone. A STORY FROM A DICTIONARY "L "Sic visum Veneri: cui placet impares Saevo mittere cum joco."-HOR. i. 33. OVE mocks us all "as Horace said of old: From sheer perversity, that arch-offender Still yokes unequally the hot and cold, The short and tall, the hardened and the tender; He bids a Socrates espouse a scold, And makes a Hercules forget his gender :Sic visum Veneri! Lest samples fail, I add a fresh one from the page of BAYLE. It was in Athens that the thing occurred, I shan't describe her. Beauty is the same The type is still that witching One who came, |