Her famous looms. Then, bright with deity,

Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went To ask of Zeus (who has his thunder-joys And his full knowledge of man's mingled fate)

How best to crown those other gifts with love

And wortby marriage: but, what time she went,

The ravishing Harpies snatched the

maids away. And gave them up, for all their loving

eyes,

To serve the Furies who hate constantly.

ANOTHER vERSiON.

So -the storms bore the daughters of Pandarus out into thrall—

The gods slew their parents; the orphans were left in the hall.

And there came, to feed their young lives. Aphrodite divine,

With the incense, the sweet-tasting honey, the sweet-smelling wine;

Here brought them her wit above woman's, and beauty of face;

And pure Artemis gave them her stature, that form might have grace:

And Athene instructed their hands in her works of renown;

Then, afar to Olympas, divine Aphrodite moved on:

To complete other gifts, by uniting each girl to a mate,

She sought Zeus, who has joy in the thunder and knowledge of fate,

Whether mortals have good chance or ill I But the Harpies alate

In the storm came, and swept off the maidens, and gave them to wait,

With that love in their eyes, on the Furies who constantly hate.

PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON.

ODE TO THE SWALLOW.

Thou indeed, little Swallow,
A sweet yearly comer,
Art building a hollow
New nest every summer.

And straight dost depart Where no gazing can follow, Past Memphis, down Nile! Ay! but love all the while Builds his nest in my heart. Through the cold winter-weeks: And as one Ix,ve takes flight, Comes another, O Swallow, In an egg warm and white, And another is callow. And the large gaping beaks Chirp all day and all night: And the Loves who are older Help the young and the poor Loves, And the young Loves grown bolder Increase by the score Loves— Wby, what can be done? If a noise comes from one, Can I bear all this rout of a hundred and more Loves?

SONG OF THE ROSE.

ATTRiBUTED TO SAPPHO.

If Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth, He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it; For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth, Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it! For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers. Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,— Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware.

Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the

rose lifts the cup To the red lips of Cypris invoked for

a guest!

Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up.

As they laugh to the Wind as it laughs from the west.

F«om Achillea Tntiwi THE FOURFOLD ASPECT.

When ye stood up in the house

With your little childish teet, And in touching Life's first shows,

First the toucn of Love did meet,— Love and Nearness seeming one,

By the heart-light cast before, Ana, of all Beloveds, none

Standing farther than the door— Not a name being dear to thought,

With its owner beyond call. Nor a face, unless it brought

Its own shadow to the wall, When the worst recorded change

Was of apple dropt from bough, When love's sorrow seemed more strange

Than love's treason can seem now; Then, the Loving took you up

Soft, upon their elder knees,— Telling why the statues droop

Underneath the churchyard trees, And how ye must lie beneath them

Through the winters long and deep. Till the last trump overbreathe them.

And ye smile out of your sleep . . . Oh ye lifted up your head, and it seemed as if they said A tale of fairy ships

With a swan-wing for a sail I— Oh, ye kissed their loving lips

For the merry, merry tale !— So carelessly ye thought upon the Dead.

Soon ye read in solemn stories

Of the men of long ago—
Of the pale bewildering glories

Shining farther than we know.
Of the heroes with the laurel.

Of the poets with the hay,
Of the two worlds' earnest quarrel

For that beauteous Helena.
How Achilles at the portal

Of the tent, heard footsteps nigh And his strong heart, half-immortal,

Met the heitai with a cry,— How Ulysses left the sunlight

For the pale eidola race Blank and passive through the dun light,

Staring blindly on his face;

How that true wife said to Pectus, With calm smile and wounded heart,

'Sweet, it hurts not!'—how Admetus

Saw his blessed one depart. How King Arthur proved his mission. And Sir Rowland wound his horn, And at Sangreal's moony vision Swords did bristle round like corn. Oh! ye lifted up your head, and it seemed the while ye read, That this death, then, must be found A Valhalla for the crowned— The heroic who prevail. None, be sure can enter in Far below a paladin Of a noble, noble tale I— So awfully ye thought upon the Dead.

Ay ! but soon ye woke up shrieking,—

As a child that wakes at night From a dream of sisters speaking

In a garden's summer-light,— That wakes, starting up and bounding,

In a lonely, lonely bed, With a wall of darkness round him,

Stifling black about his head !— And the full sense of your mortal

Rushed upon you deep and loud, And ye heard the thunder hurtle

From the silence of the cloud— Funeral-torches at your gateway

Threw a dreadful light within; All things changed! you rose up straightway

And saluted Death and Sin. Since,—your outward man has rallied

And your eye and voice grown bold—

Yet the Sphinx of Life stands pallid.

With her saddest secret told. Happy places have grown holy:

If ye went where once ye went, Only tears would fall down slowly,

As at solemn sacrament: Merry books, once read for pastime,

If ye dared to read again, Only memories of the last time

Would swim darkly up the brain. Household names, which used to flatter

Through your laughter unawares,—