In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of " Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"

There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;-
But whenever a soft glance softer grows,

And the light hours dance to the trysting time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme !

ENVOY.

In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey for the ripple of laughing rhyme !

AUSTIN DOBSON.

X

THE GOD OF WINE.

[CHANT ROYAL.]

I.

B

EHOLD, above the mountains there is light,
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire,
And the dim East hath suddenly grown

bright

With pale aëreal flame, that drives up higher The lurid airs that all the long night were Breasting the dark ravines and coverts bare; Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose, And down the vales a lyric people flows, Who dance to music, and in dancing fling Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

II.

Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,

The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire;
Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair,
With ivy circling their abundant hair,

Onward, with even pace, in stately rows

With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

III.

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white,
And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher,
Bathed in an air of infinite delight,

Smooth without wound of thorn, or fleck of mire,
Borne up by song as by a trumpet's blare,
Leading the van to conquest, on they fare,
Fearless and bold, whoever comes and goes
These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close,
Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring,
And forests grim forget their ancient woes,
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

IV.

And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,

Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,

And wandered forth through many a scourging brier, And waited shivering in the icy air,

And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there,
Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze,

The time must come, that every poet knows,
When he shall rise and feel himself a king,
And follow, follow where the ivy grows,
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

V.

But oh within the heart of this great flight,
Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre,
What form is this of more than mortal height?
What matchless beauty, what inspired ire!
The brindled panthers know the prize they bear,
And harmonise their steps with stately care;

Bent to the morning, like a living rose,

The immortal splendour of his face he shows. And, where he glances, leaf, and flower, and wing

Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

ENVOY.

Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes
Record the bounty that thy grace bestows,
But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling,
And with no frigid lips our songs compose,
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

EDMUND W. GOSSE.