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"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.

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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.

A MATCH.

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

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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.

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLORENCE PERCY).

[U. s. A.]

IN THE DEFENCES.

AT WASHINGTON.

ALONG the ramparts which surround the

town

I walk with evening, marking all the while

How night and autumn, closing softly down,

Leave on the land a blessing and a smile.

In the broad streets the sounds of tumult cease,

The gorgeous sunset reddens roof and spire,

The city sinks to quietude and peace,

Sleeping, like Saturn, in a ring of fire;

Circled with forts, whose grim and threatening walls

Frown black with cannon, whose abated

breath

Waits the command to send the fatal balls Upon their errands of dismay and death.

And see, directing, guiding, silently Flash from afar the mystic signal-lights, As gleamed the fiery pillar in the sky Leading by night the wandering Israel

ites.

The earthworks, draped with summer weeds and vines,

The rifle-pits, half hid with tangled briers,

But wait their time; for see, along the lines

Rise the faint smokes of lonesome picket-fires,

Where sturdy sentinels on silent beat Cheat the long hours of wakeful lone

liness

With thoughts of home, and faces dear and sweet,

And, on the edge of danger, dream of bliss.

Yet at a word, how wild and fierce a change Would rend and startle all the earth and skies

With blinding glare, and noises dread and strange,

And shrieks, and shouts, and deathly agonies.

The wide-mouthed guns would war, and hissing shells

Would pierce the shuddering sky with fiery thrills,

The battle rage and roll in thunderous swells,

And war's fierce anguish shake the solid hills.

But now how tranquilly the golden gloom Creeps up the gorgeous forest-slopes, and flows

Down valleys blue with fringy asterbloom,

An atmosphere of safety and repose.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

289

Against the sunset lie the darkening hills, | And up the listening hills the echoes float Faint and more faint and sweetly multiplied.

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

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Peace reigns; not now a soft-eyed nymph that sleeps

Unvexed by dreams of strife or con

queror,

But Power, that, open-eyed and watchful, keeps

Unwearied vigil on the brink of war. Night falls; in silence sleep the patriot bands;

The tireless cricket yet repeats its tune, And the still figure of the sentry stands In black relief against the low full

moon.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

[U. s. A.]

OUR HEROES.

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 Ægean seas,
But out of their sleep no charın 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?

Are the gleaming snows and the poppies

red

All that is left of the brave of yore?
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,
Far in the young world's misty dawn?
Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught,
Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

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 eve,

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!

For Freedom's sword is the blade they LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

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