Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow; And possessing youth eternal. Round about him, fair Bacchantes, Thus he won, through all the nations, Bore, as trophies and oblations, Vines for banners ploughs for armour. Judged by no o'erzealous rigour, Much this mystic throng expresses: Bacchus was the type of vigour, These are ancient ethnic revels, Now to rivulets from the mountains Point the rods of fortune-tellers; Youth perpetual dwells in fountains, — Not in flasks, and casks, and cellars. Claudius, though he sang of flagons Even Redi, though he chaunted Never drank the wine he vaunted Then with water fill the pitcher Come, old friend, sit down and listen! THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS L'éternité est une pendule, dont le balancier dit et redit sans cesse ces deux mots seulement, dans le silence des tombeaux: "Toujours! jamais! Jamais! toujours!" JACQUES BRIDAINE. SOMEWHAT back from the village street Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, "Forever-never! Never-forever! " Halfway up the stairs it stands, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, With sorrowful voice to all who pass, "Forever- never! Never forever! By day its voice is low and light; And seems to say, at each chamber-door,— "Forever never! Never-forever!" |