POETRY.

FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

(In the metre of the originals.)

LOVE LOST. (Meleager.) Om! Eros is lost, the wild boy! 'Twos but this morning

Early he slipped out of bed, flew away no one knows where. Full of sweet tears is the boy, a chatterbox, unabashed ever.

Sly is his smile; at his back wings and a quiver he weurs. Father's name is unknown, for that they produced such a rascal

Heaven, and earth, and sea jointly and firmly deny. Everywhere and by all he is hated. But keep a good look-out!

Probably he's even now setting Isis syringes again. Still— But look, there he is in a hiding-place. All ! yes, I see you, Archer-boy, e'en tho' you hide, lurking in Dorcau's eyes. A LOVER'S MESSAGE. (Meleager.) Take her this message, Dorcas; a second time, too, you may tell her.

Yes, and even a third; ev'rything tell her ! Now run! No more dawdling, fly! Yet, Dorcas, stay for a moment. Where are you off to so fast, ere the whole message you've got?

Add to what I said first,—or rather—What rubbish I'm talking!

Say to her nothing at all,—but that—Nay, ev'rything tell! Yes, be sure you say all! But why in the world do I send you,

Dorcas, when, as you see, I'm going with you myself?

LOVE FOR SALE. (Meleager.) Let him be sold! Yes, while in his mother's lap he is sleeping, Let him be sold! Must I bring up a creature like this? Why, Ws snub-nosed, and has wings, and his finger-nails freely he uses Scratching, and then when he cries, often he laughs in between.

See lthw bold is his stare! He's a chatterbox; shame never checks him.

Rough are his ways, nor polite e'en to his mother herself. Yes, he's a monster! We'll sell him. So if any overseas merchant

Wishes a slave to secure, let him come forward and buy. Ah, but look! He's in tears, and entreating us. Well, I won't sell you.

Cheer up, and here in my house with my Zenophile live.

C. T. Casinos, M.A.