Nay, let me deck my bosom therewithal, It were ill-ominous to let it fall, The faithful mistress of Hyperion Sun. THE GOD. Stoop thou, what ails thee, child, to shudder? stoop and brush Hair with tow-towzled hair, that for a space I breathe my godhead through thy thirsting veins, and flush The soft submalar hollows of thy face, And thrill thee, crown to sole, till that in downward rush Of eager ecstasy with fair flat feet thou crush The beetle, Virtue, in the lowly place. THE DAMOSEL. Ah, master and lord, I feel it; the wind of thy fierce delight, Hell-hot as the blast from the furnace, sea-cold as a gust of the sea. O deaf blind Love, that art deaf as a poker and blind as the night! O my flushed faint cheeks and my chin! O mine eye and the elbow of me! I bow to thy might, O my lord, to the keen blown breath of thy lips, With a loathing of love that longs, and a longing of love that loathes, With shiver of angular shoulders, and shake of invisible hips, As boweth the light slight stake in the torture of wind-whirled clothes! Thou hast rent me enough, O Divine! … and behold, thou stayest thine hand, And leavest me crushed as a reed, that I wot not whether I tread Upon Earth, our holy old mother, with feet down-pressing, or stand Inverse, in a fearless new fashion, uplift on my passionate head! _The Criticism._――“I have judged it good and helpful to prefix to my few words in appreciation of Mr. Bones’s noble picture this exquisite lyric of Mr. Sinburn’s. It may serve to a better understanding of the one master’s work to note in what wise it has inspired the other. The scene of Mr. Bones’s picture is a garden; the time, high noon. A damosel, tall and gracious, stands before us, clad, but ‘more expressed than hidden,’ in a robe of subtle tissue; which, loyal through three parts of its length to the lines of her sinuous figure, breaks loose round her finely-modelled knees into a riot of enchanting curves and folds; yet, withal, an orderly revolt, and obedient to its own higher law of rebellious grace. At her side stands the fatal Eros, the divine, the immortal, bow in hand, a glory of great light about his head. Behind him rise his outspread wings, which, by one of those eloquently significant touches whereof this painter possesses, one must think, the exclusive secret, are made to simulate the expanded tail of the bird of Heré. What he has here set down for us, in reporting of the lower limbs of this Immortal, he may well have noticed when he himself was last set down at his own house-door; since we see that for the knees of the young Eros of the ancients he has not disdained to study from the ancient Kab-os of the moderns. In the form of the maiden who bends towards him, quivering like a shot bird at the touch of his long lithe finger, we have another triumph of the