Thoughtfully and calmly in review All. in life repeats itself forever, Young for ay is phantasy alone; What has happened nowhere,—happened never,—     That has never older grown! 

           PUNCH SONG. Four elements, joined in Harmonious strife, Shadow the world forth, And typify life. Into the goblet The lemon's juice pour; Acid is ever Life's innermost core. Now, with the sugar's All-softening juice, The strength of the acid So burning reduce. The bright sparkling water Now pour in the bowl; Water all-gently Encircles the whole. Let drops of the spirit To join them now flow; Life to the living Naught else can bestow. Drain it off quickly Before it exhales; Save when 'tis glowing, The draught naught avails. 

       NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT. See, he sitteth on his mat Sitteth there upright, With the grace with which he sat While he saw the light. Where is now the sturdy gripe,—     Where the breath sedate, That so lately whiffed the pipe Toward the Spirit great? Where the bright and falcon eye, That the reindeer's tread On the waving grass could spy, Thick with dewdrops spread? Where the limbs that used to dart Swifter through the snow Than the twenty-membered hart, Than the mountain roe? Where the arm that sturdily Bent the deadly bow? See, its life hath fleeted by,—     See, it hangeth low! Happy he!—He now has gone Where no snow is found:    Where with maize the fields are sown, Self-sprung from the ground; Where with birds each bush is filled, Where with game the wood; Where the fish, with joy unstilled, Wanton in the flood. With the spirits blest he feeds,—     Leaves us here in gloom; We can only praise his deeds, And his corpse entomb. Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring, Sound the death-note sad! Bury with him everything That can make him glad!     'Neath his head the hatchet hide That he boldly swung; And the bear's fat haunch beside, For the road is long; And the knife, well sharpened, That, with slashes three, Scalp and skin from foeman's head Tore off skilfully. And to paint his body, place Dyes within his hand; Let him shine with ruddy grace In the Spirit-land! 

        THE FEAST OF VICTORY. Priam's castle-walls had sunk, Troy in dust and ashes lay, And each Greek, with triumph drunk, Richly laden with his prey, Sat upon his ship's high prow, On 

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