Alas for Cytherea!—­he is dead. 
Her hopeless sorrow breaks in tears, that rain
Down over all the fair, beloved head,—­
Like summer showers, o’er wind-down-beaten grain;
They flow as fast as flows the crimson stain
From out the wound, deep in the stiffening thigh;
And lo! in roses red the blood blooms fair,
And where the tears divine have fallen close by,
Spring up anemones, and stir all tremblingly.

I weep for Adonais—­he is dead! 
No more, O Cypris, weep thy wooer here! 
Behold a bed of leaves!  Lay down his head
As if he slept—­as still, as fair, as dear,—­
In softest garments let his limbs appear,
As when on golden couch his sweetest sleep
He slept the livelong night, thy heart anear;
Oh, beautiful in death though sad he keep,
No more to wake when Morning o’er the hills doth creep.

And over him the freshest flowers fling—­
Ah me! all flowers are withered quite away
And drop their petals wan! yet, perfumes bring
And sprinkle round, and sweetest balsams lay;—­
Nay, perish perfumes since thine shall not stay! 
In purple mantle lies he, and around,
The weeping Loves his weapons disarray,
His sandals loose, with water bathe his wound,
And fan him with soft wings that move without a sound.

The Loves for Cytherea raise the wail. 
Hymen from quenched torch no light can shake. 
His shredded wreath lies withered all and pale;
His joyous song, alas, harsh discords break! 
And saddest wail of all, the Graces wake;
“The beauteous Adonais!  He is dead!”
And sigh the Muses, “Stay but for our sake!”
Yet would he come, Persephone is dead;—­
Cease, Cypris!  Sad the days repeat their faithful tread!

Paraphrase of Anna C. Brackett, in Journal of Speculative Philosophy.

HESPER

Hesper, thou golden light of happy love,
Hesper, thou holy pride of purple eve,
Moon among stars, but star beside the moon,
Hail, friend! and since the young moon sets to-night
Too soon below the mountains, lend thy lamp
And guide me to the shepherd whom I love. 
No theft I purpose; no wayfaring man
Belated would I watch and make my prey: 
Love is my goal; and Love how fair it is,
When friend meets friend sole in the silent night,
Thou knowest, Hesper!

AUGUSTINE BIRRELL

(1850-)

Those to whom the discovery of a relishing new literary flavor means the permanent annexation of a new tract of enjoyment have not forgotten what happened in 1885.  A slender 16mo volume entitled “Obiter Dicta”, containing seven short literary and biographic essays, came out in that year, anonymous and unheralded, to make such way as it might among a book-whelmed generation.  It had no novelty of subject to help it to a hearing; the themes were largely the most written-out, in all