With dripping steeds did Galatea follow,

'Neath Etna'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,

From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after painting by Ed. Grützner.