And Helle lifted up her name

To shine eternal o'er the river-sea.

And many tears are shed
Upon thy bridal-bed,

Star of the swimmer in the lonely night!

Who with unbraided hair

Wipedst a breast so fair,

Bounding with toil, more bounding with delight.

But they whose prow hath past thy straits
And, ranged before Byzantion's gates,
Bring to the God of sea the victim due,
Even from the altar raise their eyes,
And drop the chalice with surprise,
And at such grandeur have forgotten you.

At last there swells the hymn of praise,
And who inspires those sacred lays?

"The founder of the walls ye see.”
What human power could elevate
Those walls, that citadel, that gate?
"Miletos, O my sons! was he."

Hail then, Miletos! hail, beloved town,
Parent of me and mine!

But let not power alone be thy renown,
Nor chiefs of ancient line.

Nor visits of the Gods, unless
They leave their thoughts below,

And teach us that we most should bless
Those to whom most we owe.

Restless is Wealth; the nerves of Power

Sink, as a lute's in rain:

The Gods lend only for an hour
And then call back again

All else than Wisdom; she alone,
In Truth's or Virtue's form,
Descending from the starry throne
Through radiance and through storm,

Remains as long as godlike men
Afford her audience meet,

Nor Time nor War tread down agen
The traces of her feet.

Alway hast thou, Miletos, been the friend,
Protector, guardian, father, of the wise;
Therefor shall thy dominion never end

Till Fame, despoiled of voice and pinion, dies.

With favoring shouts and flowers thrown fast behind, Arctinos ran his race,

No wanderer he, alone and blind

And Melesander was untorn by Thrace.

There have been, but not here,
Rich men who swept aside the royal feast
On child's or bondman's breast,

Bidding the wise and aged disappear.

Revere the aged and the wise,
Aspasia but thy sandal is not worn

To trample on these things of scorn;
By his own sting the fire-bound scorpion dies.

Walter Savage Landor.

Rhodes, the Island.

THE SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

AT Rhodes children greeted the swallow, as herald of the spring, in a little song. Troops of them, carrying about a swallow, sang this from door to door, collecting provisions in return.

And the wheaten meal, and the basket of cheese,
And the omelet cake, which is known to please
The swallow, that comes to the Rhodian land?
Say, must we be gone with an empty hand,
Or shall we receive

The gift that we crave?

If thou give, it is well;

But beware, if thou fail,

Nor hope that we 'll leave thee,

Of all we'll bereave thee.

We'll bear off the door,

Or its posts from the floor,

Or we 'll seize thy young wife who is sitting within,
Whose form is so airy, so light, and so thin,
And as lightly, be sure, will we bear her away.
Then look that thy gift be ample to-day,

And open the door, open the door,

To the swallow open the door!

No graybeards are we

To be foiled in our glee,

But boys, who will have our will

This day,

But boys, who will have our will.

From the Greek. Tr. Anonymous.

PROTOGENES AND APELLES.

WHEN

HEN poets wrote and painters drew,
As nature pointed out the view;
Ere Gothic forms were known in Greece,
To spoil the well-proportioned piece;
And in our verse ere monkish rhymes
Had jangled their fantastic chimes;
Ere on the flowery lands of Rhodes,
Those knights had fixed their dull abodes,
Who knew not much to paint or write,

Nor cared to pray, nor dared to fight,
Protogenes, historians note,

Lived there, a burgess, scot and lot;
And, as old Pliny's writings show,
Apelles did the same at Co.

Agreed these points of time and place,
Proceed we in the present case.
Piqued by Protogenes's fame,
From Co to Rhodes Apelles came,
To see a rival and a friend,
Prepared to censure or commend;
Here to absolve and there object,
As art with candor might direct.
He sails, he lands, he comes, he rings,
His servants follow with the things:
Appears the governante of the house,
For such in Greece were much in use;
If young or handsome, yea or no,
Concerns not me or thee to know.

"Does Squire Protogenes live here?" "Yes, sir," says she, with gracious air And courtesy low, "but just called out By lords peculiarly devout,

Who came on purpose, sir, to borrow
Our Venus for the feast to-morrow,
To grace the church; 't is Venus' day:
I hope, sir, you intend to stay

To see our Venus? 't is the piece
The most renowned throughout all Greece;
So like the original, they say:

But I have no great skill that way.