XXVII.

What! shall a wight who aim'd at Indra's throne,
Be worsted by a spinster in address?
A learned sage's constancy o'erthrown
By a white bosom and a pretty face?
And twenty years of labor lost for one

Glance of a little smiling traitoress?
Nay, man! for shame avert those eager looks,
And hang yourself again upon your hooks.

XXVIII.

Vain caution! Candoo's head was always weak,
And long exhaustion doubtless made it weaker;
Nor did he once suspect the lurking trick

In the fair semblance of that gentle speaker.
Besides, what firmness does not sometimes shake?
Who knows but we that frown had yielded quicker?
In short, our hermit felt the beauty's power,

And led her blushing to the nuptial bower.

XXIX.

Her three companions, seeing the success
That had attended the negotiation,
Now parted from the fair ambassadress,

And mounted gaily to their former station;
The gods all crowded round with eagerness,

And heard with loud applauses the relation; This done, with many a flowing bowl they quaff'd her Health, and old Meroo shook beneath their laughter.

XXX.

This sudden match was not so ill-assorted,

As many readers may at first suppose; For Candoo, by the pains he had supported,

Had gain'd the power of changing as he chose

His outward shape: at least 't is so reported
In Hindoo authors of repute, and those,
Who doubt the tale, may find another just
Such change describ'd at full in Goethe's Faust.

XXXI.

No more an aged wight with meagre limbs,
Care-furrow'd face and haggard eyes and hollow,
To please his youthful bride at once he seems
In form a youthful Bacchus or Apollo.
Loose flow his curling locks like sunny gleams

From his broad front and every motion follow;
While new-born Love with purple radiance dies
His glowing cheeks and lights his flashing eyes.

XXXII.

And now no more of penitence or pain,

No more of scourging, fasting, maceration;
But love and laughter o'er the mansion reign,
Where pining misery lately held her station.
Swift fly the hours, an ever joyful train,

On fairy wings of sweetest occupation;
Nor did our happy lovers heed their flight,
Or scarcely mark the change of day and night.

XXXIII.

For each to other then was all in all;

A little world, a paradise of pleasure;The nymph forgot the joys of Indra's hall;

The sage his hard-earn'd, long-expected treasure. Their life was one unceasing festival,

That left them neither memory nor leisure;

And days, and weeks, and months had pass'd like one Hour in the joy of this long honey-moon.

XXXIV.

At length, as Candoo by his lovely bride
One evening sate and marked the setting sun,
He started suddenly and left her side,

As recollecting something to be done;
And "pray, my ever-dearest love!" he cried,
"Excuse me for a moment while I run
To offer my accustom'd sacrifice :

To intermit this holy exercise

XXXV.

A single day, would ruin me forever."

And pray, most reverend anchorite!" replies
With an arch smile, the little gay deceiver,
"Inform me how your holiness espies
A difference, which I in vain endeavor

To find, between this hour of sacrifice
And all the rest, which we have pass'd together,
Since first in happy hour I wander'd hither."

XXXVI.

"What others?" cries the sage, in strange dismay;

'What others can have pass'd? My love is mocking Others? Why is not this the very day,

When first I saw you by the river walking?

And this the first time, that the solar ray

Has left us since? What mean you by the shocking Thought that my services have e'er been failing, And by the smile that on your lips is dwelling?"

XXXVII.

"Excuse me, reverend father!" she replies, "I know such girlish levity is quite

Uncivil; but to think that one so wise

Should not perceive the change of day and night;

'Tis worth a million.

That the sun should rise

And set, and you not know it,

is not it

Most exquisite? The Gods will die with laughing. A single day? Why we have here been quaffing,

XXXVIII.

Feasting and sporting for at least a year.”

"Good God!" cries Candoo, "is it possible? And are you not deceiving me, my dear?”

"Deceive you!" cries the nymph, "oh, capital! To think a silly girl, like me, should dare Dream of deceiving such a miracle

Of wisdom!- that could never be: oh no!

You can't:- I burst with laughing: - wrong me so."

XXXIX.

"Alas! alas!" quoth Candoo, who began

By this to come a little to his senses, And looked as foolish as a learned man

Need wish to,

curse upon her fair pretences!

The artful gypsy has destroyed my plan,

And cheated me through all the moods and tenses.

I'm fairly duped, (like Wellington at Cintra.)

Madam, adieu! I leave the skies to Indra."

THE GRECIAN GOSSIPS.

IMITATED FROM THEOCRITUS.

[Democratic Review, June, 1888.]

[THE following little dramatic sketch, which forms the fifteenth Idyll of Theocritus, is, in the original, one of the most agreeable of the minor fragments that remain to us of the Greek poetry. The scene is laid at Alexandria, the great commercial emporium of the eastern part of the Mediterranean. The principal personages are two married women of the middling class, who attend the public celebration of the Festival of Adonis. The commencement of the dialogue gives us an interesting glimpse of the domestic life of a private Greek family, and the succeeding part a lively and graphic miniature sketch of the appearance of the city under the excitement of a public celebration. It is amusing to remark the complete identity of the occurrences described, and the feelings called forth with those which we daily observe on similar occasions among ourselves. The details are executed with the good taste, spirit, and truth to nature, which characterize Theocritus as one of the best of the Greek poets.

The song, which is rather freely paraphrased, alludes to the mythological fable of Adonis, who was represented as living alternately, for six months at a time, on earth and in the lower regions. The fiction is supposed to have been originally an astronomical allegory, but it has been so much embroidered upon that it has nearly lost its character. The Festival of Adonis began with a funeral ceremony in commemoration of his death, and terminated with a jubilee in honor of his return. The song, included in this little drama, belongs, of course, to the close of the festival.

It is a rather striking proof of the comprehensiveness of the Greek language that the original title, The Women at the Festival of Adonis, is expressed in Greek by the single word, 'Adwriúžovoai.