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With dripping steeds did Galatea follow,

'Neath Ætna's crags, lone Polyphemus's song: Is 't strange the loved of Bacchus and Apollo

Leads captive with his lay the maiden throng? Though no Tænarian blocks uphold my dwelling,

Nor ivory panels shine 'tween gilded beams; No orchards mine Phæacia's woods excelling,

No chiselled grots where Marcian water streams,

Yet Song is mine; my strain the heart engages; Faint from the dance sinks the lithe Muse with

me: O happy maid whose name adorns my pages !

Each lay a lasting monument to thee !

The pyramids that cleave heaven's jewelled portal;

Elean Jove's star-spangled dome; the tomb Where rich Mausolus sleeps,-are not immortal,

Nor shall escape inevitable doom.

Devouring fire and rains will mar their splendor;

The weight of years will drag the marble down: Genius alone a name can deathless render, And round the forehead wreathe the unfading crown.

From the Latin of SEXTUS PROPERTIUS.

Translation of Dr. JAMES CRANSTOUN.

WRITTEN ON A FLY-LEAF OF

THEOCRITUS.

Those were good times, in olden days,

Of which the poet has his dreams,

THE STUDIOUS MONK.

“He that many bokes redys,
Cunnyinge shall he be."

-KALEDER OF SHEPERDES.

From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after

painting by Ed. Grützner.

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