the history of Vespasian?  Is there anywhere a sweeter legend than that of the Halcyons, the ice-birds, who love one another so tenderly that when the male becomes enfeebled by age, his mate carries him on her outspread wings whithersoever he will; and the gods, desiring to reward such faithful love, cause the sun to shine more kindly, and still the winds and waves on the “Halcyon days” during which these birds are building their nest and brooding over their young?  There can surely have been no lack of romantic love in days when a used-up man of the world, like Antony, could desire in his will that wherever he died his body might be laid by the side of his beloved Cleopatra:  nor of the chivalry of love when Berenice’s beautiful hair was placed as a constellation in the heavens.  Neither can we believe that devotion in the cause of love could be wanting when a whole nation was ready to wage a fierce and obstinate war for the sake of one beautiful woman.  The Greeks had an insult to revenge, but the Trojans fought for the possession of Helen.  Even the old men of Ilium were ready “to suffer long for such a woman.”  And finally is not the whole question answered in Theocritus’ unparalleled poem, “the Sorceress?” We see the poor love-lorn girl and her old woman-servant, Thestylis, cowering over the fire above which the bird supposed to possess the power of bringing back the faithless Delphis is sitting in his wheel.  Simoetha has learnt many spells and charms from an Assyrian, and she tries them all.  The distant roar of the waves, the stroke rising from the fire, the dogs howling in the street, the tortured fluttering bird, the old woman, the broken-hearted girl and her awful spells, all join in forming a night scene the effect of which is heightened by the calm cold moonshine.  The old woman leaves the girl, who at once ceases to weave her spells, allows her pent-up tears to have their way, and looking up to Selene the moon, the lovers’ silent confidante, pours out her whole story:  how when she first saw the beautiful Delphis her heart had glowed with love, she had seen nothing more of the train of youths who followed him, “and,” (thus sadly the poet makes her speak)

               “how I gained my home
        I knew not; some strange fever wasted me. 
        Ten days and nights I lay upon my bed. 
        O tell me, mistress Moon, whence came my love!”

“Then” (she continues) when Delphis at last crossed her threshold: 

                         “I
        Became all cold like snow, and from my brow
        Brake the damp dewdrops:  utterance I had none,
        Not e’en such utterance as a babe may make
        That babbles to its mother in its dreams;
        But all my fair frame stiffened into wax,—­
        O tell me mistress Moon, whence came my love!”