2

had wasted on the floor, and then eat them, and then look if any were remaining. I thought he did so out of fondness for me, remembering that, even before the famine, he had often swept up off the table the bread I had broken, and had made me put it between his lips. I would not dissemble very long, but said:

"Come, now you have wakened me, you must sing me asleep again, as you did when I was little."

He smiled faintly at this, and, after some delay, when he had walked up and down the chamber, thus began:

"I will sing to thee one song more, my wakeful Rhodopè! my chirping bird! over whom is no mother's wing! That it may lull thee asleep, I will celebrate no longer, as in the days of wine and plenteousness, the glory of Mars, guiding in their invisibly rapid onset the dappled steeds of Rhesus.1 What hast thou to do, my little one, with arrows tired of clustering in the quiver? How much quieter is thy pallet than the tents which whitened the plain of Simöis! 2 What knowest thou about the river Eurotas ?3 What knowest thou about its ancient palace, once trodden by assembled Gods, and then polluted by the Phrygian? What knowest thou of perfidious men or of sanguinary deeds?

66

Pardon me, O goddess who presidest in Cythera! I am not irreverent to thee, but ever grateful. May she upon whose brow I lay my hand, praise and bless thee for ever

more!

"Ah, yes! continue to hold up above the coverlet those fresh and rosy palms clasped together: her benefits have descended on thy beauteous head, my child! The Fates also have sung, beyond thy hearing, of pleasanter scenes than snow-fed Hebrus; 5 of more than dim grottos and sky-bright waters. Even now a low murmur swells upward to my ear: and not from the spindle comes the sound, but from those who sing slowly over it, bending all three their tremulous heads together. I wish thou couldst hear it; for seldom are their voices so sweet. Thy pillow intercepts the song perhaps lie down again, lie down, my Rhodope! I will repeat what they are saying: "Happier shalt thou be, nor less glorious,

than even she,' the truly beloved, for whose return to the distaff and the lyre the portals of Tænarus flew open. In the woody dells of Ismarus, and when she bathed among the swans of Strymon, the nymphs called her Eurydice. Thou shalt behold that fairest and that fondest one hereafter. But first thou must go unto the land of the lotos, where famine never cometh, and where alone the works of man are immortal.'

"O my child! the undeceiving Fates have uttered this. Other powers have visited me, and have strengthened my heart with dreams and visions. We shall meet again, my Rhodopè, in shady groves and verdant meadows, and we shall sit by the side of those who loved us."

He was rising: I threw my arms about his neck, and, before I would let him go, I made him promise to place me, not by the side, but between them: for I thought of her who had left us. At that time there were but two, O

Æsop.

You ponder: you are about to reprove my assurance in having thus repeated my own praises. I would have omitted some of the words, only that it might have disturbed the measure and cadences, and have put me out. They are the very words my dearest father sang; and they are the last yet, shame upon me! the nurse (the same who stood listening near, who attended me into this country) could remember them more perfectly: it is from her I have learnt them since; she often sings them, even to herself.

Esop. So shall others. There is much both in them and in thee to render them memorable.

Rhodope. Who flatters now?

Esop. Flattery often runs beyond Truth, in a hurry to embrace her; but not here. The dullest of mortals, seeing and hearing thee, would never misinterpret the prophecy of the Fates.

If, turning back, I could overpass the vale of years, and could stand on the mountaintop, and could look again far before me at the bright ascending morn, we would enjoy the prospect together; we would walk along the summit hand in hand, O Rhodopè, and we would only sigh at last when we found ourselves below with others.

Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best
stores.

They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls de-
part)

Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank 30
And not reproach'd me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands

Cried she, “is large and sweet." She held one forth,

Whether for me to look at or to take

She knew not, nor did I; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubt.

I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back 60
The boon she tender'd, and then finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

TO ROBERT BROWNING

There is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for
thee,

Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walk'd along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 10
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the
breeze

Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on

She wrote a charming hand, — and oh!
How sweetly all her notes were folded! 88

Our love was like most other loves;
A little glow, a little shiver,

A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,
And "Fly not yet"

upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted;

A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, - and then we parted. 96

We parted; months and years rolled by;
We met again four summers after:
Our parting was all sob and sigh;
Our meeting was all mirth and laughter:
For in my heart's most secret cell
There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room's belle,
But only Mrs. Something Rogers!

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849)

FROM DEATH'S JEST-BOOK

SONG

Old Adam, the carrion crow,

The old crow of Cairo;

He sat in the shower, and let it flow Under his tail and over his crest; And through every feather Leaked the wet weather;

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And the bough swung under his nest;
For his beak it was heavy with marrow.
Is that the wind dying? O no;
It's only two devils, that blow
Through a murderer's bones, to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.

Ho! Eve, my grey carrion wife,

I 2

When we have supped on kings' marrow, Where shall we drink and make merry our