Mad--yes--mad as cruelty! * * * * * Poor, poor Cydilla! was it then to this That all my tale was prologue? Think of Amyntas, think of that poor boy, Bereaved as we are both bereaved! Come, come, Find him, and say that Love himself has sent us To offer our poor service in his stead. Cydilla: Good Damon, help me find my wool; my eyes Are blind with tears; then I will come at once! We must be doing something, for I feel We both shall drown our hearts with time to spare. * * * * * RONALD ROSS HESPERUS Ah whither dost thou float, sweet silent star, In yonder floods of evening's dying light? Before the fanning wings of rising night, Methinks thy silvery bark is driven far To some lone isle or calmly havened shore, Where the lorn eye of man can follow thee no more. How many a one hath watched thee even as I, And unto thee and thy receding ray Poured forth his thoughts with many a treasured sigh Too sweet and strange for the remorseless day; But thou hast gone and left unto their sight Too great a host of stars, and yet too black a night. E'en as I gaze upon thee, thy bright form Doth sail away among the cloudy isles Around whose shores the sea of sunlight smiles. On thee may break no black and boisterous storm To turn the tenour of thy calm career. As thou wert long ago so now thou dost appear. Art thou a tear left by the exiled day Upon the dusky cheek of drowsy night? Or dost thou as a lark carol alway Full in the liquid glow of heavenly light? Or, bent on discord and angelic wars, As some bright spirit tread before the trooping stars? The disenchanted vapours hide thee fast; The watery twilight fades and night comes on; One lingering moment more and thou art gone, Lost in the rising sea of clouds that cast Their inundations o'er the darkening air; And wild the night wind wails the lightless world's despair. * * * * * EDMUND BEALE SARGANT THE CUCKOO WOOD Cuckoo, are you calling me, Or is it a voice of wizardry? In these woodlands I am lost, From glade to glade of flowers tost. Seven times I held my way, And seven times the voice did say, Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from this underwood, Half of green and half of brown, Unless he laid his senses down. Only let him chance to see The snows of the anemone Heaped above its greenery; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! No man could Issue from the master wood.