Greek, or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting

This much if no more,

That a poet (pray, no petting!)

Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where such like used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing; I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
-Judges able, I should mention,

To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
Played in time and tune,

Till the judges, weighing coldly

Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,

Sure to smile "In vain one tries

When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?

Oh, and afterwards eleven,

Thank you! Well, sir,- who had guessed

Such ill luck in store? it happed

One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What" cicada?" Pooh!)

-Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music-flew

With its little heart on fire,

Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy!) our singer
For his truant string

Feels with disconcerted finger,

What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay, and ever to the ending,
Cricket chirps at need,
Executes the hand's intending,
Promptly, perfectly,—indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges

Cry with one assent

"Take the prize-a prize who grudges

Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp,

So it shrilled us forth F sharp!

Did the conquerer spurn the creature, Once its service done?

That's no such uncommon feature

In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent
For aiding soul-development.

No! This other, on returning
Homeward, prize in hand,

Satisfied his bogom's yearning;
(Sir, I hope you understand!)

66

Said Some record there must be

Of this cricket's help to me! "

So, he made himself a statue :
Marble stood, life-size;

On the lyre, he pointed at you,
Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found

Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application?

Somebody I know

Hopes one day for reputation

Through his poetry that's-Oh,

All so learned and so wise,
And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket,
When his statue's built,

Tell the gazer

"Twas a cricket.

Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,With my lyre at lowest, highest,

Right alike,-one string that made

'Love 'sound soft was snapt in twain,

Never to be heard again,—

Had not a kind cricket fluttered,

Perched upon the place

Vacant left, and duly uttered

'Love, Love, Love, whene'er the hass

Asked the treble to atone

For its somewhat sombre drone. "

But you

don't know music! Wherefore

Keep on casting pearls

To a-poet? All I care for

Is-to tell him that a girl's

"Love" comes aptly in when gruff

Grows his singing. There, enough!

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE WAGES OF SIN.

Say, old pard, you see that dwellin' in that yonder clump

of trees

Tumblin' down and lookin' awkward like a sinner on his

knees?

See them vines a hangin' faithful to the house and cistern

shed

Like the soul that keeps a clingin' to the hopes it knows is

dead?

Well, I'm not a cryin' baby, whinin' round and sheddin'

tears,

For I've lived on disappointment now for more than thirty years.

I have lived a life as wicked as the devil's oldest son,
And I've spent no time repentin' for the deviltry I've done.
And I'm known in all these diggins as the toughest of the

crew,

And I don't talk tender hearted to a livin' soul but you. Them that's never felt a wound, pard, is the ones that laughs

at scars,

And the man that's got his freedom sneers at them behind the bars.

Oh, it sets my heart a throbbin' when I look on that old

place,

Where my hopes was crushed and trampled by a devil! See that face!

See him, pard! He's in the doorway! See that mad glare in his eye!

See him scowl and stare around him! Hear him swear that she shall die!

See, he's got a bloody dagger! He has killed her!— She is dead!

O, my God, may heaven's curses rain upon his murderous

head!

Pard, don't catch an' hold me that way- I'm not mad! He's often there

In that dark deserted doorway scowlin' on me with a stare That would drive me mad forever, if I didn't chance to

know

That the devil got his spirit more than thirty years ago.

Yes, I'm all right now The story?- Certainly. Its thirty years

Since I looked on that old dwellin' without fightin' back my tears.

If an angel ventured from the pearly gates above

An' deluged an earthly household with a flood of light and

love

That's the house that entertained her; that's the home her presence blessed.

And for I was pure and young then) I was her most welcome guest.

Love her? Pard, a mortal bosom never harbored love like

mine

For a mortal-she was mortal-but to me she was divine. All my thoughts an' all my bein', all my hopes to her was

wed