A week passed away, and the convalescent had made good progress. Mr. Falconer had not yet seen his fair guest. Six of the sisters, one remaining with Miss Gryll, performed every evening, at the earnest request of Mr. Gryll, a great variety of music, but always ending with the hymn to their master's saint. The old physician came once or twice, and stayed the night. The Reverend Doctor Opimian went home for his Sunday duties, but took too much interest in the fair Morgana not to return as soon as he could to the Tower. Arriving one morning in the first division of the day, and ascending to the library, he found his young friend writing. He asked him if he were working on the Aristophanic comedy. Mr. Falconer said he got on best with that in the doctor's company. 'But I have been writing,' he said, 'on something connected with the Athenian drama. I have been writing a ballad on the death of Philemon, as told by Suidas and Apuleius.' The doctor expressed a wish to hear it, and Mr. Falconer read it to him. THE DEATH OF PHILEMON{1} 1 Suidas: sub voce (Greek), Apuleius: Florid, 16. Closed was Philemon's hundredth year: The theatre was thronged to hear His last completed play: In the mid scene, a sudden rain Dispersed the crowd--to meet again On the succeeding day. He sought his home, and slept, and dreamed. Nine maidens through his door, it seemed, Passed to the public street. He asked them, 'Why they left his home?' They said, 'A guest will hither come We must not stay to meet.' He called his boy with morning light, Told him the vision of the night, And bade his play be brought. His finished page again he scanned, Resting his head upon his hand, Absorbed in studious thought He knew not what the dream foreshowed: That nought divine may hold abode Where death's dark shade is felt: And therefore were the Muses nine Leaving the old poetic shrine, Where they so long had dwelt. II The theatre was thronged once more, More thickly than the day before, To hear the half-heard song. The day wore on. Impatience came. They called upon Philemon's name, With murmurs loud and long. Some sought at length his studious cell, And to the stage returned, to tell What thousands strove to ask. 'The poet we have been to seek Sate with his hand upon his cheek, As pondering o'er his task. 'We spoke. He made us no reply. We reverentially drew nigh, And twice our errand told. He answered not We drew more near The awful mystery then was clear: We found him stiff and cold.