Another curious experiment was, differently affecting the opposite organs--so that endearment was shown on one side, and aversion on the other, of the same person. One scene was beautiful, for the very graceful motion exhibited. One of these young women was attracted to Dr Elliotson by his beckoning her to him, while by word he told her not to come. Her movements were slow, very graceful, as if moved by irresistible power.] [Footnote 36: You remember the melancholy music of the lines of Moschus:-- [Greek: "Ai Ai tai malachai men epan kata katon olôntai Ê tachlôra selina, to t' euthales oulon anêdon, Ysteron hauzôonti, kai eis etos allo phyonti. Ammes d' hoi megaloi kai karteroi hê sophoi andres, Oppote prôta thanômes, anakosi en chthoni koila Eudames eu mala makron atermona nêgreton hypnon."] Accept of this attempt:-- Alas! alas! the mallows, though they wither where they lie, And all the fresh and pleasant herbs within the garden die, Another year they shall appear, and still fresh bloom supply. But we, Great men, the strong, the wise, the noble, and the brave, When once we fall into the earth, our nourriture that gave, Long silence keep of endless sleep, within the hollow grave.] [Footnote 37: _Vide_ an amusing little _jeu-d'esprit--A Descant upon Weather-Wisdom--both Witty and Wise._--ANON. Longmans. 1845.] [Footnote 38: There is an exquisite little poem, taken from this passage of Plutarch, at once imaginative and true, for hidden truths are embodied in the tangible workings of the poet's imagination, by Miss Barrett.] A MOTHER TO HER FORSAKEN CHILD. My child--my first-born! Oh, I weep To think of thee--thy bitter lot! The fair fond babe that strives to creep Unto the breast where _thou art not_, Awakes a piercing pang within, And calls to mind thy heavy wrong. Alas! I weep not for my sin-- To thy dark lot these tears belong. Thy little arms stretch forth in vain To meet a mother's fond embrace; Alas! in weariness or pain, Thou gazest on a hireling's face. I left thee in thy rosy sleep-- I dared not then kneel down to bless; Now--now, albeit thou may'st weep, Thou canst not to my bosom press. My child! though beauty tint thy cheek, A deeper dye its bloom will claim, When lips all pitiless shall speak Thy mournful legacy of shame. Perchance, when love shall gently steal To thy young breast all pure as snow, This cruel thought shall wreck thy weal, _The mother's guilt doth lurk below_. J. D. SUMMER NOONTIDE. Unruffled the pure ether shines, O'er the blue flood no vapour sails, Bloom-laden are the clinging vines, All odour-fraught the vales. There's not a ripple on the main, There's not a breath to stir the leaves, The sunlight falls upon the plain Beside the silent sheaves.