And, lo, again the good Gods glad my sight With vengeance; blood again, thy blood, I see Streaming;--who bids Hippolytus depart But thou--thou, sword of lustful Phædra's hate Against thy boy--thy son--thy fair-haired boy; I see the ivory chariot whirl him on---- The maddened horses down the rocky way Dashing--the roaring monster in their path; And plates and ivory splinters of the car, And blood and limbs, sprung from thee, crushed and torn, Poseidon scatters down the shrieking shores; And thou too late--too late, bewail'st in vain. Thy blindness and thy hapless darling's fate. And think'st of me, abandoned, and my woe; Thou who didst show no pity, to the Gods Shrieking for pity, that my vengeful cries Drag thee not down unto the nether gloom, To endless tortures and undying woe. Dread Gods! I know these things shall surely be! But other, wilder whispers throng my ears, And in my thought a fountain of sweet hope Mingles its gladness with my lorn despair. Lo! wild flushed faces reel before mine eyes. And furious revels, dances, and fierce glee, Are round me,--tossing arms and leaping forms. Skin-clad and horny-hoofed, and hands that clash Shrill cymbals, and the stormy joy of flutes And horns, and blare of trumpets, and all hues Of Iris' watery bow, on bounding nymphs, Vine-crowned and thyrsus-sceptred, and one form, God of the roaring triumph, on a car Golden and jewel-lustred, carved and bossed, As by Hephæstus, shouting, rolls, along, Jocund and panther-drawn, and through the sun, Down, through the glaring splendor, with wild bound, Leaps, as he nears me, and a mighty cup, Dripping, with odorous nectar, to my lips Is raised, and mad sweet mirth--frenzy divine Is in my veins--hot love burns through mine eyes, And o'er the roar and rout I roll along, Throned by the God, and lifted by his love Unto forgetfulness of mortal pains, Up to the prayers and praise and awe of earth. W. C. B. FOOTNOTES: [8] By the kindness of a friend these fine poems are printed for the first time in _The International Magazine_. A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[9] WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. CHAPTER XLII. Mrs. Hazleton was an observer of all small particulars. On the present occasion she had been kept alone fully ten minutes in the drawing-room, and she was not at all pleased with this want of alacrity. Though her face was as smooth as ever when she entered the sick room, she saw that a change of feeling, or at least a change of purpose, had taken place, and that Lady Hastings felt embarrassed by a consciousness which she might not choose to communicate. But success had made her bold, and she loved to steer her course through agitated waters.