THE POETS OF ANCIENT GREECE.

(Wine of Cyprus.)

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.

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.

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

Then, what golden hours were for us!
While we sat 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!

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!

Our Euripides, the human,

With his droppings of warm tears,
And his touches of things common
Till they rose to touch the spheres!
Our Theocritus, our Bion,

And our Pindar's shining goals!—
These were cup-bearers undying,
Of the wine that's meant for souls.

E. B. Browning.

THE DEATH OF JASON. ·

(The Life and Death of Jason.)

BUT on a day

From out the goodly town he took his way,
To where, beneath the cliffs of Cenchreæ,
Lay Argo, looking o'er the ridgy sea.

Being fain once more to ponder o'er past days,
Ere he should set his face to winning praise
Among the shouts of men and clash of steel.

But when he reached the well-remembered keel,
The sun was far upon his downward way,
At afternoon of a bright summer day.
Hot was it, and still o'er the long rank grass,
Beneath the hull, a widening shade did pass ;
Aud further off, the sunny daisied sward,

The raised oars with their creeping shadows barred;
And grey shade from the hills of Cenchres
Began to move on toward the heaving sea.
So Jason, lying in the shadow dark
Cast by the stem, the warble of the lark,
The chirrup of the cricket, well could hear;
And now and then the sound would come anear
Of some hind shouting o'er his laiden wain.
But looking o'er the blue and heaving plain,
Sailless it was, and beaten by no oar,
And on the yellow edges of the shore
The ripple fell in murmur soft and low,
As with wide-sweeping wings the gulls did go
About the breakers crying plaintively.

But Jason, looking out across the sea,

Beheld the signs of wind a-drawing nigh,
Gathering about the clear cold eastern sky,
And many an evening then he thought upon
Ere yet the quays of Ea they had won,
And longings that had long been gathering
Stirred in his heart, and now he felt the sting
Of life within him, and at last he said :-
'Why should I move about as move the dead,
And take no heed of what all men desire?
Once more I feel within my heart the fire
That drave me forth unto the white-walled town,
Leaving the sunny slopes, and thick-leaved crown
Of grey old Pelion, that alone I knew,

Great deads and wild, and desperate things to do.
Ah! the strange life of happiness and woe
That I have led, since my young feet did go
From that grey, peaceful, much-beloved abode,
But now,
indeed, will I cast off the load
Of memory of vain hopes that came to nought,
Of rapturous joys with biting sorrows bought.
The past is past, though I cannot forget

Those days, with long life laid before me yet.
'Ah, but one moment, ere I turn the page,
And leave regret to white hairs and to age.
'Once did I win a noble victory,

I won a kingdom, and I cast it by

For rest and peace, and rest and peace are gone.
I had a fair love, that loved me alone,

And made me that I am in all men's eyes;
And like my hard-earned kingdom, my fair prize,
I cast my tender heart, my Love away;
Yet failed I not to love, until a day,
A day I nigh forget, took all from me
That once I had.-And she is gone, yea, she

Whose innocent sweet eyes and tender hands
Made me a mocking unto distant lands:
Alas, poor child! yet is that as a dream,
And still my life a happy life I deem,
But ah! so short, so short! for I am left
Of love, of honour, and of joy bereft-
And yet not dead-ah, if I could but see
But once again her who delivered me
From death and many troubles, then no more
Would I turn backward from the shadowy shore,
And all my life would seem but perfect gain.
'Alas! what hope is this? is it in vain

I long to see her?

Lo, am I not young?
In many a song my past deeds have been sung,
And these my hands that guided Argo through
The blue Symplegades, still deeds may do.

For now the world has swerved from truth and right,
Cumbered with monsters, empty of delight,
And, 'midst all this, what honour may I win,
That she may know of and rejoice therein,
And come to seek me, and upon my throne
May find me sitting, worshipped, and alone.
Ah! if it should be, how should I rejoice
To hear once more that once belovèd voice
Rise through the burden of dull words, well-known:
How should I clasp again my love, mine own,
And set the crown upon her golden head,
And with the eyes of lovers newly wed,
How should we gaze each upon each again.
'O hope not vain! O surely not quite vain!
For, with the next returning light will I
Cast off my moody sorrow utterly,

And once more live my life as in times past,

And 'mid the chance of war the die will cast.