Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Put Pan to the test!
Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith
In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, The Goat-God
saith:

When Persia-so much as strews not the soil-is cast in the sea, Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least,

Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'

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Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"

(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear

-Fennel, whatever it bode-I grasped it a-tremble with dew.) "While, as for thee . . . But enough! He was gone.

ran hitherto

If I

Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's

edge!

Pan for Athens, Pan for me! myself have a guerdon rare!

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Then spoke Miltiades. And thee, best runner of Greece,
Whose limbs did duty indeed,-what gift is promised thyself?
Tell it us straightway,-Athens the mother demands of her son!"
Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length
His eyes from the ground, it seemed

as he gathered the rest of

his strength

Into the utterance-"Pan spoke thus: For what thou hast done

Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,

Pound-Pan helping us-Persia to dust, and, under the deep, Whelm her away forever; and

then,-no Athens to save,Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,

Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep Close to my knees,-recount how the God was awful yet kind, Promised their sire reward to the full-rewarding him--so!"

Unforeseeing one e! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day : So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis! Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield,

Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through clay,

Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute
Is still" Rejoice!"-his word which brought rejoicing indeed.
So is Pheidippides happy forever, the noble strong man

Who could race like a God, bear the face of a God, whom a God loved so well

He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell

Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,

So to end gloriously-once to shout, thereafter be mute:

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Athens is saved!"--Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.

THE PATRIOT.

AN OLD STORY.

I.

It was roses, roses, all the way,

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

II.

The air broke into a mist with bells,

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels--

But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered "And afterward, what else?"

III.

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

To give it my loving friends to keep!

Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

IV.

There's nobody on the house-tops now--
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,

At the Shambles' Gate-or, better yet,
By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

V.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

VI.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. Paid by the world, what dost thou owe

Me?"--God might question; now instead,

'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

POPULARITY.

I.

STAND still, true poet that you are!
I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you'll fail us: when afar

You rise, remember one man saw you,
Knew you, and named a star!

II.

My star, God's glowworm! Why extend
That loving hand of His which leads you,
Yet locks you safe from end to end

Of this dark world, unless He needs you,
Just saves your light to spend ?

III.

His clinched hand shall unclose at last,
I know, and let out all the beauty:

My poet holds the future fast,

Accepts the coming ages' duty,

Their present for this past.

IV.

That day, the earth's feast-master's brow
Shall clear, to God the chalice raising;
"Others give best at first, but Thou
Forever set'st our table praising,
Keep'st the good wine till now!"

V.

Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand,

With few or none to watch and wonder: I'll say—a fisher, on the sand

By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land.

VI.

Who has not heard how Tyrian shells
Inclosed the blue, that dye of dyes
Whereof one drop worked miracles,
And colored like Astarte's eyes
Raw silk the merchant sells ?

VII.

And each bystander of them all

Could criticise, and quote tradition

How depths of blue sublimed some pall

-To get which, pricked a king's ambition; Worth scepter, crown, and ball.

VIII.

Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh,
The sea has only just o'er-whispered!
Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh,
As if they still the water's lisp heard
Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.

IX.

Enough to furnish Solomon

Such hangings for his cedar-house,
That, when gold-robed he took the throne
In that abyss of blue, the Spouse
Might swear his presence shone

X.

Most like the center-spike of gold

Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb

What time, with ardors manifold,

The bee goes singing to her groom,

Drunken and overbold.

XI.

Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!
Till cunning come to pound and squeeze.
And clarify,--refine to proof

The liquor filtered by degrees,

While the world stands aloof.

XII.

And there's the extract, flasked and fine,

And priced and salable at last!

And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes combine
To paint the future from the past,
Put blue into their line.

XIII.

Hobbs hints blue,-straight he turtle eats:
Nobbs prints blue,-claret crowns his cup:
Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,-

Both gorge. Who fished the murex up?
What porridge had John Keats?