These are ancient ethnic revels, Of a faith long since forsaken ; Now the Satyrs, changed to devils, Frighten mortals wine-o'ertaken. 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 And huge tankards filled with Rhenish, From that fiery blood of dragons Never would his own replenish. Even Redi, though he chaunted Bacchus in the Tuscan valleys, Never drank the wine he vaunted In his dithyrambic sallies. Then with water fill the pitcher Wreathed about with classic fables ; Ne'er Falernian threw a richer Light upon Lucullus' tables. Come, old friend, sit down and listen! As it passes thus between us, How its wavelets laugh and glisten In the head of old Silenus ! 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 And from its station in the hall “ Forever - never ! Never - forever!” Halfway up the stairs it stands, “ Forever - never ! Never - forever!" By day its voice is low and light; Forever never ! Through days of sorrow and of mirth. “ Forever never! Never - forever!” In that mansion used to be 6 Forever — never ! Never forever!” There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours ! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time! |