Have heard the sea-waves hammer Argo's forehead,

That I misdeem the fluting of this current

For some lost nymph—"

las!"

Again the murmur, "Hy

And with the sound a cold, smooth arm around him Slid like a wave, and down the clear, green darkness Glimmered on either side a shining bosom,·

Glimmered, uprising slow; and ever closer

Wound the cold arms, till, climbing to his shoulders,
Their cheeks lay nestled, while the purple tangles
Their loose hair made, in silken mesh enwound him.
Their eyes of clear, pale emerald then uplifting,
They kissed his neck with lips of humid coral,
And once again there came a murmur, “Hylas!”
O, come with us! O, follow where we wander
Deep down beneath the green, translucent ceiling,
Where on the sandy bed of old Scamander

With cool, white buds we braid our purple tresses,
Lulled by the bubbling waves around us stealing!
Thou fair Greek boy, O, come with us! O, follow
Where thou no more shalt hear Propontis riot,
But by our arms be lapped in endless quiet,
Within the glimmering caves of Ocean hollow!
We have no love; alone, of all the Immortals,
We have no love. O, love us, we who press thee
With faithful arms, though cold, whose lips caress

thee,

Who hold thy beauty prisoned! Love us, Hylas!"

The boy grew chill to feel their twining pressure Lock round his limbs, and bear him, vainly striving,

Down from the noonday brightness.

Naiads!

"Leave me,

Leave me!" he cried; "the day to me is dearer Than all your caves deep-sphered in Ocean's quiet. I am but mortal, seek but mortal pleasure:

I would not change this flexile, warm existence, Though swept by storms, and shocked by Jove's dread thunder,

To be a king beneath the dark-green waters." Still moaned the humid lips, between their kisses, "We have no love. O, love us, we who love thee!"

I keep the kisses which your lips would ravish.
Unlock your cold white arms, take from my shoulder
The tangled swell of your bewildering tresses.
Let me return: the wind comes down from Ida,
And soon the galley, stirring from her slumber,
Will fret to ride where Pelion's twilight shadow
Falls o'er the towers of Jason's sea-girt city.
I am not yours, — I cannot braid the lilies
In your wet hair, nor on your argent bosoms

Close my drowsed eyes to hear your rippling voices.
Hateful to me your sweet, cold, crystal being, -
Your world of watery quiet. Help, Apollo!
For I am thine: thy fire, thy beam, thy music,
Dance in my heart and flood my sense with rapture:
The joy, the warmth and passion now awaken,
Promised by thee, but erewhile calmly sleeping.
O, leave me, Naiads! loose your chill embraces,

Or I shall die, for mortal maidens pining."

But still, with unrelenting arms they bound him,
And still, accordant, flowed their watery voices :
"We have thee now, we hold thy beauty prisoned;
O, come with us beneath the emerald waters!
We have no love; we love thee, rosy Hylas.
O, love us, who shall nevermore release thee:
Love us, whose milky arms will be thy cradle
Far down on the untroubled sands of ocean,
Where now we bear thee, clasped in our embraces."
And slowly, slowly sank the amorous Naiads;
The boy's blue eyes, upturned, looked through the
water,

Pleading for help; but Heaven's immortal Archer
Was swathed in cloud. The ripples hid his forehead,
And last, the thick, bright curls a moment floated,
So warm and silky that the stream upbore them,
Closing reluctant, as he sank forever.

The sunset died behind the crags of Imbros.
Argo was tugging at her chain; for freshly

Blew the swift breeze, and leaped the restless billows.
The voice of Jason roused the dozing sailors,
And up the mast was heaved the snowy canvas.
But mighty Hêraclês, the Jove-begotten,
Unmindful stood, beside the cool Scamander,
Leaning upon his club. A purple chlamys
Tossed o'er an urn was all that lay before him :
And when he called, expectant, "Hylas! Hylas !"
The empty echoes made him answer,

"Hylas !"

Bayard Taylor.

Scio (Chios).

MITHRIDATES AT CHIOS.

NOW'ST thou, O slave-cursed land!

KNO

How, when the Chian's cup of guilt
Was full to overflow, there came
God's justice in the sword of flame
That, red with slaughter to its hilt,
Blazed in the Cappadocian victor's hand?

The heavens are still and far; But, not unheard of awful Jove, The sighing of the island slave

Was answered, when the Egean wave

The keels of Mithridates clove,

And the vines shrivelled in the breath of war.

"Robbers of Chios! hark,"

The victor cried, "to Heaven's decree! Pluck your last cluster from the vine, Drain your last cup of Chian wine; Slaves of your slaves, your doom shall be, In Colchian mines by Phasis rolling dark."

Then rose the long lament

From the hoar sca-god's dusky caves; The priestess rent her hair and cried, "Woe! woe! The gods are sleepless-eyed!"

And, chained and scourged, the slaves of slaves, The lords of Chios into exile went.

"The gods at last pay well,"

So Hellas sang her taunting song,

The fisher in his net is caught,

The Chian hath his master bought"; And isle from isle, with laughter long, Took up and spread the mocking parable.

Once more the slow, dumb years
Bring their avenging cycle round,

And, more than Hellas taught of old,
Our wiser lesson shall be told,

Of slaves uprising, freedom-crowned,

To break, not wield, the scourge wet with their blood and tears.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

W

Scutari.

SANTA FILOMENA.

'HENE'ER a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls

Into our inmost being rolls,