and puzzled, and not able to form any rational scheme that might account for it." HERMOTIMUS I. "Wilt not lay thee down in quiet slumber? Weary dost thou seem, and ill at rest; Sleep will bring thee dreams in starry number-- Let him come to thee and be thy guest. Midnight now is past-- Husband! come at last-- Lay thy throbbing head upon my breast." II. "Weary am I, but my soul is waking; Fain I'd lay me gently by thy side, But my spirit then, its home forsaking, Through the realms of space would wander wide-- Everything forgot, What would be thy lot, If I came not back to thee, my bride?" III. "Music, like the lute of young Apollo, Vibrates even now within mine ear; Soft and silver voices bid me follow, Yet my soul is dull and will not hear. Waking it will stay: Let me watch till day-- Fainter will they come, and disappear." IV. "Speak not thus to me, my own--my dearest! These are but the phantoms of thy brain; Nothing can befall thee which thou fearest, Thou shalt wake to love and life again. Were this sleep thy last, I should hold thee fast, Thou shouldst strive against me but in vain." V. "Eros will protect us, and will hover, Guardian-like, above thee all the night, Jealous of thee, as of some fond lover Chiding back the rosy-fingered light-- He will be thine aid: Canst thou feel afraid When _his_ torch above us burneth bright?" VI. "Lo! the cressets of the night are waning-- Old Orion hastens from the sky; Only thou of all things art remaining Unrefreshed by slumber--thou and I. Sound and sense are still; Even the distant rill Murmurs fainter now, and languidly." VII. "Come and rest thee, husband!"--And no longer Could the young man that fond call resist: Vainly was he warned, for love was stronger-- Warmly did he press her to his breast. Warmly met she his; Kiss succeeded kiss, Till their eyelids closed with sleep oppressed. VIII. Soon Aurora left her early pillow, And the heavens grew rosy-rich, and rare; Laughed the dewy plain and glassy billow, For the Golden God himself was there; And the vapour-screen Rose the hills between, Steaming up, like incense, in the air. IX. O'er her husband sate Ione bending-- Marble-like and marble-hued he lay; Underneath her raven locks descending, Paler seemed his face, and ashen gray, And so white his brow-- White and cold as snow-- "Husband! Gods! his soul hath passed away!" X. Raise ye up the pile with gloomy shadow-- Heap it with the mournful cypress-bough!-- And they raised the pile upon the meadow, And they heaped the mournful cypress too; And they laid the dead On his funeral bed, And they kindled up the flames below. XI.