The charmed sunset linger’d low adown
    In the red West:  thro’ mountain clefts the dale
    Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
    Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale
    And meadow, set with slender galingale;
    A land where all things always seem’d the same! 
    And round about the keel with faces pale,
    Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
    The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

    Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
    Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
    To each, but whoso did receive of them,
    And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
    Far, far away did seem to mourn and rave
    On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
    His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
    And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,
    And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

    They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
    Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
    And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
    Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
    Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,
    Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
    Then some one said, “We will return no more;”
    And all at once they sang, “Our island home
    Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”

ALFRED TENNYSON.

 MOLY.

“Moly” (mo’ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible presentation of the value of integrity.  This poem ranks with “Sir
 Galahad,” if not above it.  It is a stroke of genius, and every American ought to be proud of it.  Every time my boys read “Odysseus” or the story of Ulysses with me we read or learn “Moly.”  The plant moly grows in the United States as well as in Europe.

    Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,
    If thou touch at Circe’s isle,—­
    Hermes’ moly, growing solely
    To undo enchanter’s wile! 
    When she proffers thee her chalice,—­
    Wine and spices mixed with malice,—­
    When she smites thee with her staff
    To transform thee, do thou laugh! 
    Safe thou art if thou but bear
    The least leaf of moly rare. 
    Close it grows beside her portal,
    Springing from a stock immortal,
    Yes! and often has the Witch
    Sought to tear it from its niche;
    But to thwart her cruel will
    The wise God renews it still. 
    Though it grows in soil perverse,
    Heaven hath been its jealous nurse,
    And a flower of snowy mark
    Springs from root and sheathing dark;
    Kingly safeguard, only herb
    That can brutish passion curb! 
    Some do think its name should be
    Shield-Heart, White Integrity. 
    Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,
    If thou touch at Circe’s isle,—­
    Hermes’ moly, growing solely
    To undo enchanter’s wile!

EDITH M. THOMAS.