If I may choose (out of our travelled bands) Friend or companion to make bright, the way; Or draw the grandeur out from Orient lands, Where Libanus mounts up and meets the day; Or face, midst trackless, boundless, burning sands, The Desert Silence--as it pants for prey; Be thou (oh Author of Eothen), mine; Who show'st whate'er the region, stern or gay, Whate'er the scene--life, death, sublime decay, For all fine things, and apprehension fine. 'Tis well to ride abroad on the untamed waves; To shoot the desert with the camel's speed; To muse o'er discrowned Egypt's wondrous graves, And trace her story downwards, deed by deed; Yet, half the lustre of our life were hid, Our travel idle, meditation nought, Without such friend in give back thought for thought, From waste and sea, mountain and pyramid. BARRY CORNWALL. ARIADNE. Morn rose on Naxos,--golden dewy morn, Climbing its eastern cliffs with gleaming light, Purpling each inland peak and dusky gorge Of the gray distance,--morn, on lowland slopes, Of olive-ground and vines and yellowing corn, Orchard and flowery pasture, white with kine, On forest, hillside cot, and rounding sea, And the still tent of Theseus by the shore. Morn rose on Naxos--chill and freshening morn, Nor yet the unbreathing air a twitter heard From eave or bough,--nor yet a blue smoke rose From glade or misty vale, or far-off town; One only sign of life, a dusky sail, Stole afar across the distant sea, Flying; all else unmoved in stillness lay Beneath the silence of the brightening heavens, Nor sound was heard to break the slumbrous calm, Save the soft lapse of waves along the strand. A white form from the tent,--a glance,--a cry. Where art thou, Theseus?--Theseus! Theseus! where? Why hast thou stolen thus with earliest dawn, Forth from thy couch--forth from these faithless arms, That even in slumber should have clasped thee still! Truant! ah me! and hast thou learnt to fly So early from thy Ariadne's love! Where art thou? Is it well to fright me thus,---- To scare me for a moment with the dread Of one abandoned! Art thou in the woods With all that could have told me where thou art! Cruel! and couldst thou not have left me one, Ere this to have laughed away my idle fears! He could have told thee all--the start--the shriek---- The pallid face, with which I found thee gone, And furnished laughter for thy glad return; But thus! to leave me, cruel! thus alone! There is no sound of horns among the hills, No shouts that tell they track or bay the boar. O fearful stillness! O that one would speak! O would that I were fronting wolf or pard But by thy side this moment! so strange fear Possesses me, O love! apart from thee;