O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran,
His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan.

At last a servant heard a stranger speak
A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek,
Skilled in his art; from Pergamus he came
To Rome but lately; GALEN was the name.
The Greek was called: a man with piercing eyes,
Who must be cunning, and who might be wise.

He spoke but little, if they pleased, he said,

-

He'd wait awhile beside the sufferer's bed.

So by his side he sat, serene and calm,

His very accents soft as healing balm ;

Not curious seemed, but every movement spied,

His sharp eyes searching where they seemed to

glide;

Asked a few questions, what he felt, and where?

"A pain just here," "A constant beating there."
Who ordered bathing for his aches and ails?
"Charmis, the water-doctor from Marseilles."
What was the last prescription in his case?
"A draught of wine with powdered chrysoprase."
Had he no secret grief he nursed alone?
A pause; a little tremor; answer, "None."
Thoughtful, a moment, sat the cunning leech,
And muttered "Eros!" in his native speech.

In the broad atrium various friends await

The last new utterance from the lips of fate;
Men, matrons, maids, they talk the question o'er,
And, restless, pace the tessellated floor.
Not unobserved the youth so long had pined,
By gentle-hearted dames and damsels kind;
One with the rest, a rich Patrician's pride,
The lady Hermia, called "the golden-eyed;"
The same the old Proconsul fain must woo,
Whom, one dark night, a masked sicarius slew;
The same black Crassus over roughly pressed
To hear his suit, the Tiber knows the rest.
(Crassus was missed next morning by his set;
Next week the fishers found him in their net.)
She with the others paced the ample hall,
Fairest, alas! and saddest of them all.

At length the Greek declared, with puzzled face,
Some strange enchantment mingled in the case,
And naught would serve to act as counter-charm
Save a warm bracelet from a maiden's arm.
Not every maiden's, many might be tried;

Which not in vain, experience must decide.
Were there no damsels willing to attend
And do such service for a suffering friend?

The message passed among the waiting crowd,

First in a whisper, then proclaimed aloud.
Some wore no jewels; some were disinclined,
For reasons better guessed at than defined;
Though all were saints,—at least professed to be,—
The list all counted, there were named but three.

The leech, still seated by the patient's side,
Held his thin wrist, and watched him, eagle-eyed.
Aurelia first, a fair-haired Tuscan girl,

Slipped off her golden asp, with eyes of pearl.
His solemn head the grave physician shook;
The waxen features thanked her with a look.
Olympia next, a creature half divine,
Sprung from the blood of old Evander's line,
Held her white arm, that wore a twisted chain
Clasped with an opal-sheeny cymophane.
In vain, O daughter! said the baffled Greek.
The patient sighed the thanks he could not speak.
Last, Hermia entered; look, that sudden start!

The pallium heaves above his leaping heart;
The beating pulse, the cheek's rekindled flame,
Those quivering lips, the secret all proclaim.
The deep disease long throbbing in the breast,
The dread enchantment, all at once confessed!
The case was plain; the treatment was begun;
And Love soon cured the mischief he had done.

Young Love, too oft thy treacherous bandage slips Down from the eyes it blinded to the lips! Ask not the Gods, O youth, for clearer sight, But the bold heart to plead thy cause aright. And thou, fair maiden, when thy lovers sigh, Suspect thy flattering ear, but trust thine eye, And learn this secret from the tale of old: No love so true as love that dies untold.

A MOTHER'S SECRET.

How sweet the sacred legend - if unblamed
In my slight verse such holy things are named
Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy,

Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy!
Ave, Maria! Pardon, if I wrong

Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song!
The choral host had closed the Angels' strain
Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem's plain,
And now the shepherds, hastening on their way,

Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay.

They passed the fields that gleaning Ruth toiled o’er, —

They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor

Where Moab's daughter, homeless and forlorn,

Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn;
And some remembered how the holy scribe,
Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe,
Traced the warm blood of Jesse's royal son
To that fair alien, bravely wooed and won.
So fared they on to seek the promised sign
That marked the anointed heir of David's line.
At last, by forms of earthly semblance led,
They found the crowded inn, the oxen's shed.
No pomp was there, no glory shone around

On the coarse straw that strewed the reeking ground;
One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed, —
In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid!

The wondering shepherds told their breathless tale Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale; Told how the skies with sudden glory flamed, Told how the shining multitude proclaimed "Joy, joy to earth! Behold the hallowed morn! In David's city Christ the Lord is born!

'Glory to God!' let angels shout on high,
'Good will to men!' the listening earth reply!

They spoke with hurried words and accents wild; Calm in his cradle slept the heavenly child. No trembling word the mother's joy revealed, One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed;