As one that for a weary space has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine, As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again,— So gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. IDEAL. _Suggested by a female head in wax_, _of unknown date_, _but supposed to be either of the best Greek age_, _or a work of Raphael or Leonardo_. _It is now in the Lille Museum_. Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe! Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, While magical his fingers o’er thee strayed, Or that great pupil of Verrocchio Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn, Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace, And that grave tenderness of thine awhile; Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn, And only on thy lips I find her smile. * * * * * THE END. * * * * * * * * * * CHISWICK PRESS:—CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE. Footnotes {34} Cf. “Suggestions for Academic Reorganization.” {48} Thomas of Ercildoune. {66} A knavish publisher. {88} Vous y verrez, belle Julie, Que ce chapeau tout maltraité Fut, dans un instant de folie, Par les Grâces même inventé. ‘À Julie.’ _Essais en Prose et en Vers_, par Joseph Lisle; Paris. An. V. de la République.