[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Eve's Daughter. I waited in the little sunny room: The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come. "Such an old friend,--she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danae in her shower! and fit to slay All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow. "She would not make me wait!"--but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so! E.R. SILL. On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva. Beneath the warrior's helm, behold The flowing tresses of the woman! Minerva, Pallas, what you will-- A winsome creature, Greek or Roman. Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx In cousin's helmet masquerading; If not--then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading! I thought the goddess cold, austere, Not made for love's despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses? The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column! The magic hand that carved this face, And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought Had lost its subtle skill and cunning. Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion. Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais. But he is dust; we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him--there's his glory! Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity. Years blotted out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up-- To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom! O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded. Who would not suffer slights of men, And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so! T.B. ALDRICH. Hunting-song. Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (_Bugle_: Tarantara!) With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!