Anon from out the long ravine below, She heard a wailing cry, that seem'd at first

Thin as the batlike shrillings of the Dead When driven to Hades, but, in coming near,

Across the downward thunder of the brook

Sounded 'Enone'; and on a sudden he, Paris, no longer beauteous as a God, Struck by a poison'd arrow in the fight, Lame, crooked, reeling, livid, thro' the mist

Rose, like the wraith of his dead self, and moan'd

'Enone, my Enone, while we dwelt Together in this valley-happy thenToo happy had I died within thine arms, Before the feud of Gods had marr'd our peace,

And sunder'd each from each.

I am

Their oldest, and the same who first had found

Paris, a naked babe, among the woods
Of Ida, following lighted on him there,
And shouted, and the shepherds heard
and came.

One raised the Prince, one sleek'd the
squalid hair,

One kiss'd his hand, another closed his eyes,

And then, remembering the gay playmate rear'd

Among them, and forgetful of the man, Whose crime had half unpeopled Ilion, these

All that day long labour'd, hewing the pines,

And built their shepherd-prince a funeral pile;

And, while the star of eve was drawing light

From the dead sun, kindled the pyre, and all

Stood round it, hush'd, or calling on his name.

But when the white fog vanish'd like a ghost

Before the day, and every topmost pine Spired into bluest heaven, still in her

cave,

Amazed, and ever seeming stared upon By ghastlier than the Gorgon head, a face,

His face deform'd by lurid blotch and blain

There, like a creature frozen to the heart Beyond all hope of warmth, Enone sat Not moving, till in front of that ravine Which drowsed in gloom, self-darken'd from the west,

The sunset blazed along the wall of Troy. Then her head sank, she slept, and

thro' her dream

A ghostly murmur floated, 'Come to me, Enone! I can wrong thee now no more, Enone, my none,' and the dream Wail'd in her, when she woke beneath the stars.

What star could burn so low? not Ilion

yet.

What light was there? She rose and slowly down,

By the long torrent's ever-deepen'd roar,

Paced, following, as in trance, the silent cry.

She waked a bird of prey that scream'd and past;

She roused a snake that hissing writhed away;

A panther sprang across her path, she heard

The shriek of some lost life among the pines,

But when she gain'd the broader vale, and saw

The ring of faces redden'd by the flames Enfolding that dark body which had lain Of old in her embrace, paused-and then ask'd

Falteringly, Who lies on yonder pyre?' But every man was mute for reverence. Then moving quickly forward till the heat Smote on her brow, she lifted up a voice Of shrill command, 'Who burns upon the pyre?'

Whereon their oldest and their boldest said,

'He, whom thou wouldst not heal!' and all at once

The morning light of happy marriage

broke

Thro' all the clouded years of widowhood, And muffling up her comely head, and crying

Husband!' she leapt upon the funeral pile,

And mixt herself with him and past in fire.

ST. TELEMACHUS.*

HAD the fierce ashes of some fiery peak Been hurl'd so high they ranged about the globe?

For day by day, thro' many a blood-red

eve,

In that four-hundredth summer after

Christ,

The wrathful sunset glared against a cross Rear'd on the tumbled ruins of an old

fane

No longer sacred to the Sun, and flamed On one huge slope beyond, where in his

cave

The man, whose pious hand had built the

cross,

A man who never changed a word with

men,

Fasted and pray'd, Telemachus the Saint.
Eve after eve that haggard anchorite
Would haunt the desolated fane, and
there

Gaze at the ruin, often mutter low
Vicisti Galilæe'; louder again,
Spurning a shatter'd fragment of the God,
Vicisti Galilæe!' but-when now
Bathed in that lurid crimson-ask'd 'Is
earth

On fire to the West? or is the Demon-god Wroth at his fall?' and heard an answer 'Wake

Thou deedless dreamer, lazying out a life Of self-suppression, not of selfless love.' And once a flight of shadowy fighters

crost

The disk, and once, he thought, a shape with wings

Came sweeping by him, and pointed to the West,

And at his ear he heard a whisper 'Rome'

And in his heart he cried 'The call of God!'

And call'd arose, and, slowly plunging down

Thro' that disastrous glory, set his face By waste and field and town of alien tongue,

Following a hundred sunsets, and the sphere

Of westward-wheeling stars; and every dawn

Struck from him his own shadow on to Rome.

Foot-sore, way-worn, at length he touch'd his goal,

The Christian city. All her splendour

fail'd

In that vast Oval ran a shudder of shame. The Baths, the Forum gabbled of his death,

And preachers linger'd o'er his dying words,

Which would not die, but echo'd on to reach

Honorius, till he heard them, and decreed That Rome no more should wallow in this old lust

Of Paganism, and make her festal hour Dark with the blood of man who murder'd man.

(For Honorius, who succeeded to the sovereignty over Europe, supprest the gladiatorial combats practised of old in Rome, on occasion of the following event. There was one Telemachus, embracing the ascetic mode of life, who setting out from the East and arriving at Rome for this very purpose, while that accursed spectacle was being performed, entered himself the circus, and descending into the arena, attempted to hold back those who wielded deadly weapons against each other. The spectators of the murderous fray, possest with the drunken glee of the demon who delights in such bloodshed, stoned to death the preacher of peace. The admirable Emperor learning this put a stop to that evil exhibition. -Theodoret's Ecclesiastical History.)

AKBAR'S DREAM.*

AN INSCRIPTION BY ABUL FAZL FOR A TEMPLE IN KASHMIR (Blochmann xxxii.).

O GOD in every temple I see people that see thee, and in every language I hear spoken, people praise thee.

Polytheism and Islám feel after thee.

Each religion says, 'Thou art one, without equal.'

If it be a mosque people murmur the holy prayer, and if it be a Christian Church, people ring the bell from love to Thee.

Sometimes I frequent the Christian cloister, and sometimes the mosque.

But it is thou whom I search from temple to temple.

Thy elect have no dealings with either heresy or orthodoxy: for neither of them stands behind the screen of thy truth.

Heresy to the heretic, and religion to the orthodox,

But the dust of the rose-petal belongs to the heart of the perfume seller.