Rich tributes had been poured on him, Arion far renowned, And fair and gentle loved the rule, Of one by nature crowned. But what can gifts and what can gold, Or Fame’s loud peal avail, Wandering from his childhood’s home, His own Corinthian vale? * * * * * LINES WRITTEN ON ST. VALENTINE’S DAY. BY GEO. D. PRENTICE. Fair lady, on this day of love, My spirit, like a timid dove, Exulting flies to thee for rest, And nestles on thy gentle breast. Thou seemest of my life a part, A haunting presence in my heart, A glory in my day-dreams bright, An angel in my dreams at night, Like yon pure bow of airy birth A vision more of heaven than earth. Soft, lovely, beautiful, divine— But wilt thou be my Valentine? I’ve looked into thy deep eyes oft, Where heaven seemed sleeping blue and soft. I’ve gazed on all thy beauty long, I’ve heard thy witching voice of song, I’ve listened when thy deep words came As if thy lips were touched with flame, I’ve marked thee smile, I’ve marked thee weep. I’ve blest thee in the hour of sleep, I’ve felt thy heart beat wild to hear Love’s cadence stealing on thine ear, And I have been supremely blest When thou wast folded to my breast, And thy dear lips were pressed to mine— But wilt thou be my Valentine? Dove of my spirit! gentle dove, That bring’st the olive-bough of love To me when waters vast and dark Are tossing wild beneath my bark, Sweet queller of my bosom’s strife, Blest haunter of each thought of life. Dear brightner of my soul’s eclipse, Sultana of my longing lips, Queen-fairy of my fairy dreams, Young Naiad of my soul’s deep streams, Bright rainbow of life’s stormy day, Lone palm-tree of my desert way, Soft dew-drop of my heart’s one flower, Young song-bird of my spirit’s bower, My star when all beside is dim, My morning prayer, my evening hymn, My hope, my bliss, my life, my love, My all of earth, my heaven above, On lightning pinions wild and free, My panting spirit flies to thee, And worships at thy burning shrine— But wilt thou be my Valentine? * * * * * “What do the Birds say?” [Illustration: figure of a woman sitting on vines with birds perched above her]