gracious murmur by, Babbles low music, silver-clear— The wanderer holds his breath to hear; And from the rock, before his eye, Laughs forth the spring delightedly; Now the sweet waves he bends him o'er, And the sweet waves his strength restore. Through the green boughs the sun gleams dying, O'er fields that drink the rosy beam, The trees' huge shadows giant seem. Two strangers on the road are hieing; And as they fleet beside him flying, These muttered words his ear dismay: "Now—now the cross has claimed its prey!" Despair his winged path pursues, The anxious terrors hound him on— There, reddening in the evening sun, From far, the domes of Syracuse!— When towards him comes Philostratus (His leal and trusty herdsman he), And to the master bends his knee. "Back—thou canst aid thy friend no more, The niggard time already flown— His life is forfeit—save thine own! Hour after hour in hope he bore, Nor might his soul its faith give o'er; Nor could the tyrant's scorn deriding, Steal from that faith one thought confiding!" "Too late! what horror hast thou spoken! Vain life, since it cannot requite him! But death with me can yet unite him; No boast the tyrant's scorn shall make— How friend to friend can faith forsake. But from the double death shall know, That truth and love yet live below!" The sun sinks down—the gate's in view, The cross looms dismal on the ground— The eager crowd gape murmuring round. His friend is bound the cross unto. . . . Crowd—guards—all bursts he breathless through: "Me! Doomsman, me!" he shouts, "alone! His life is rescued—lo, mine own!" Amazement seized the circling ring! Linked in each other's arms the pair— Weeping for joy—yet anguish there! Moist every eye that gazed;—they bring The wondrous tidings to the king— His breast man's heart at last hath known, And the friends stand before his throne. Long silent, he, and wondering long, Gazed on the pair—"In peace depart, Victors, ye have subdued my heart! Truth is no dream!—its power is strong. Give grace to him who owns his wrong! 'Tis mine your suppliant now to be, Ah, let the band of love—be three!" 37
GREEKISM. Scarce has the fever so chilly of Gallomania departed, When a more burning attack in Grecomania breaks out. Greekism,—what did it mean?—'Twas harmony, reason, and clearness! Patience,—good gentlemen, pray, ere ye of Greekism speak! 'Tis for an excellent cause ye are fighting, and all that I ask for Is that with reason it ne'er may be a laughing-stock made.
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