Yea, sweeter than this scarce articulate sound (How sweet!) of father,'' mother,' shall be found.

The ABBA on thy tongue.

VII.

And so, as years shall chase

Each other's shadows, thou wilt less resemble
Thy fellows of the earth who toil and tremble,
Than him thou seëst not, thine angel bold
Yet meek, whose ever-lifted eyes behold
The Ever-loving's face.

WINE OF CYPRUS.

GIVEN TO ME BY H. 8. BOYD, AUTHOR OF "SELECT PASSAGES FROM THE GREEK FATHERS," "" ETC..

TO WHOM THESE STANZAS ARE ADDRESSED.

I.

Ir old Bacchus were the speaker
He would tell you with a sigh,
Of the Cyprus in this beaker
I am sipping like a fly,—

Like a fly or gnat on Ida

At the hour of goblet-pledge,

By queen Juno brushed aside,

a

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.

II.

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler
When the drink is so divine,

And some deep-mouthed Greek exemplar
Would become your Cyprus wine:
Cyclops' mouth might plunge aright in,
While his one eye over-leered,
Nor too large were mouth of Titan

Drinking rivers down his beard.

III.

Pan might dip his head so deep in,
That his ears alone pricked out,
Fauns around him pressing, leaping,
Each one pointing to his throat:
While the Naiads, like Bacchantes,
Wild, with urns thrown out to waste,

Cry, O earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste!'

IV.

But for me, I am not worthy
After gods and Greeks to drink,
And my lips are pale and earthy
To go bathing from this brink:
Since you heard them speak the last time,
They have faded from their blooms,
And the laughter of my pastime

Has learnt silence at the tombs.

V.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers Crowned the cup and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers

In the forms they thought of, now ? Who will fetch from garden-closes Some new garlands while I speak, That the forehead, crowned with roses, May strike scarlet down the cheek ?

VI.

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed;
I am sad-voiced as the turtle

Which Anacreon used to feed:
Yet as that same bird demurely
Wet her beak in cup of his,
So, without a garland, surely
I may touch the brim of this.

VII.

Go,-let others praise the Chian !
This is soft as Muses' string,
This is tawny as Rhea's lion,

This is rapid as his spring,

Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us,
Light as ever trod her feet;
And the brown bees of Hymettus

Make their honey not so sweet.

VIII.

Very copious are my praises,

Though I sip it like a fly! Ah-but, sipping,-times and places Change before me suddenly: As Ulysses' old libation

Drew the ghosts from every part, So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, Stirs the Hades of my heart.

IX.

And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings, Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek : Past the pane the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep's-bell's tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading, Somewhat low for aus and oɩs.

X.

Then, what golden hours were for us!
While we sate together there,
How the white vests of the chorus
Seemed to wave up a live air!

How the cothurns trod majestic
Down the deep iambic lines,
And the rolling anapastic

Curled like vapour over shrines!

XI.

Oh, our Eschylus, the thunderous,
How he drove the bolted breath
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous
In the gnarled oak beneath!

Oh, our Sophocles, the royal,

Who was born to monarch's place And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace!