On the waves swift Argo rested; scarce a ripple stirred the sea,
  While across the Dardan meadows sighed the breezes soft and free;
  Then the sun, in golden splendor, sank into a sea of flame,
  Darkness o’er the blue hills rested; yet no fair young Hylas came.

  For the water nymphs had loved him, when they saw his beauty rare,
  And with yielding lips caressing, they entwined him with their hair,
  Till they bound him, still entreating, with this soft and silken chain,
  Till they drew him ’neath the waters, whence he ne’er should come again.

  Then the moon, a crescent jewel, edged the clouds with silver light,
  While they sped like shallops sailing, swift-winged messengers of Night. 
  And the stream, dark-hued and somber, sighed in surges on the shore,
  Gently sighed among its rushes, “Hylas!  Hylas!” o’er and o’er.

  Yet no voice replied in answer, tho’ the sighing louder grew,
  Tho’ with sorrow bowed the flowers and their tears were drops of dew;
  No sweet echo breaks the silence, tho’ the heart may hope and yearn,
  O’er the stream a realm of quiet, on the shore the empty urn.

Fortnight, 1886.

THE ’CELLO

SAMUEL ABBOTT ’87

  The mellow light steals o’er its silent strings,
    That catch the sound of some far sylvan strain;
    Such fantasie as thrills the poet’s brain,
  Or Morpheus, floating ’neath the pale stars, brings.

  And list!  Divinely, on its own sad wings,
    It sings a wondrous pitiful refrain,
    Methinks some soul with aching grief is lain—­
  That moans and dies with broken murmurings.

  The voice is hushed, the lights are low and spent;
    The dancers bid farewell, with tired feet. 
  Too few, I ween, this thing of wood has meant
    A tenth part what its harmony, so sweet,
    Has told to me.  ’Mid joy, the sorrows greet
  The wanderer, their hearts by weeping rent.

Fortnight, 1887.

MILLET’S “ANGELUS”

ELBRIDGE LAPHAM ADAMS ’87

  Dim, distant, tinkling chimes,
  That summoned men in olden times
    To pray the Virgin grace impart;
  Ye solemn voices of a day gone by,
  Whose mystic strains of melody
    Alike touched peer and peasant’s heart: 
  Your music falters in the fleeting years,
  Yet still comes faintly to our ears,
    Saved by a master’s cunning art.

Literary Monthly, 1885.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON

HENRY D. WILD ’88