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Dream the dream the poet tells us of himself supremely

blest; Dark eyes fondly gazing o'er him-dusky cheeks his

lips have prest; And a Samian maiden's bosom is the haven of his rest.

Zephuros around him wooing.

Since that time, in countless millions, human souls have

past away; Yet Dryusa's rocks are sprinkled with the crisp Aegaean

spray ; Still the muscat vines o'ershadow sylvan paths where lovers stray.

Zephuros around them wooing.

MNEIA.

Sweet violet eyes of varying hue,
Fountains that mingled silver and blue;
Deep azure eyes of amethyst light,
Merrily sparkled thy laughter bright.

Dove-like the fondness purpling each ray-
Clear violet skies of a cloudless day:
Smiling in sympathy-beaming with bliss-
Halcyon eyes, thy remembrance I kiss.

Yielding for love's sake-calming the breast-
To the vexed spirit nepenthe and rest';
Welcoming always-grieving to part-
In dreams oft thou comest again to my heart.

Tiny and soft hands sculptured in snow
Press my brow soothingly; voice sweet and low
Echoing love notes it warbled before,
Where the stream flowed by the asphodel shore.

A CONVERSATION.
FROM THE IDYLLIA OF BION.
(IN THE METRE OF THE ORIGINAL GREEK.)

Date circa 2150 years ago.

Cleodamus.

Which do you think is the sweetest of seasons ? the

Spring or the Summer? Or Winter? or wouldst thou the time when the olives

are gathered ? Fair Summer, when all things we toil at completely are

finished ? Pleasantly passes the Autumn, while waiting to sow the

new harvests ? Or, Murson, what think you of Winter, when people

inactive Charmed with the warmth of the fire-glow fully enjoy

being idle ? Is Spring your desire ? or which would you choose of

the changes ? Tell me; for now we have leisure to turn to and chat

for diversion.

Murson. Not to a mortal is given the right to decide on such

questions ; Seasons are sacred designments and wisely ordained

their transitions : Yet may I tell to a dear friend the bent of my own idle

fancy:Summer is not quite delightful; for then the sun par

tially roasts me, Autumn is often morbific; excess of rich fruit is un

wholesome. Bearing the frost, and the snow storms, of long dreary

Winter is horror.

Hence I love threefold the Spring time, and would that

it always were with us; Neither ice-fetters benumbing nor rage of the fierce sun

oppresses ; In the new youth of the year fresh beauty is everywhere

budding: All things in turns with sweet breath, fond breezes are

joyously kissing : Darkness and daylight are equal, for labour and rest so

divided, Evenly meting to mortals the black and the white of

existence.

SNOW.

Filmy, featherý snow,

Silently, softly falling,
Far as the eye can go
The distance is filled with snow,
Filmy, feathery snow,

Silently, softly falling :
Above, around, below,
The delicate filmy snow

Silent softly falling.
Not a cloud in the sky,

Only the fluttering snow;
Watch the flakes as they idly fly,

As hither and thither they go,

As whirling about they go,
Looking up ever so high

Into the falling snow.
The delicate filmy snow

Through the voiceless air is falling,

a

a

Not a sound-only the filmy snow

In the unquiet silence falling ;
Large outstretch'd limbs of old elms look dark
Through the pale mist gathering over the park;

The misty breath of the snow,
The flakes of the down-coming snow,
And the far-off thickening snow
In the distant dimness falling.

Filmy feathery snow
Silently softly falling;

Forests of branches of silvery spray
Are clothing themselves with a veil of white,
Crystall’d with morsels of frozen light;

Surrounded by fluttering snow.
Earth puts on her ermine, star-woven, star-bright,
The wind-borne mantle, the pure pure white

Of old winter's state array.

CANTATA.

NOVA TEMPORIS ÆTAS.

From a long night of sleep,

The earth refreshed awakes ; A voiceless wind from the south

The almond tree blossom shakes,
And the meek young lilies upwards peep,

Where the sun through the woodland breaks.
When the furious storms were rushing

Through the firs on the howling wold,
When the roaring floods were gushing

Down the rifts of their mountain-hold, While the icy moons were creeping

Around her still she slept,

Though the melting snows were weeping

On her bare unsheltered breast;
She, in yule-tide dreams was sleeping-

Now soft warblings break her rest.

Awake! bright days are breaking, awake!

Thy children about thee callAwake to the leafy springing of life,

To sleep again at its fall, Sleep, sleep again at its fall.

When the crocuses long ago
Rose above their beds of snow,
Her bosom heaved with a tremulous thrill
As she turned in her slumber, slumbering still.

Fond mother, calm reposing

The young year on thy breast, Its violet eyes unclosing,

Hath roused thee from thy rest. The misty curtains aside are drawn

And the light falls on thy face-
The tender light of an April dawn,

Where the blushes of spring we trace.
Strewn in the valleys green
The primrose flowers are seen,
And the lark is singing and soaring high
Far in the pearl-grey depths of the sky.

Crowned with a rainbow-promise bright,

Spring in her childhood fair,
Radiant with light from an opal dome

And sunbeam woven hair,
With a rosebud kiss on her dewy lips,
Over the meadow sward laughingly trips

As she brings to our orchards their bloom.

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