and shepherds gathered round and called her Pity. A red-breast was
observed to build in the cabin where she was born; and while she was yet
an infant, a dove, pursued by a hawk, flew for refuge into her bosom.
She had a dejected appearance, but so soft and gentle a mien, that she
was beloved to enthusiasm. Her voice was low and plaintive, but
inexpressibly sweet; and she loved to lie for hours on the banks of some
wild and melancholy stream singing to her lute. She taught men to weep,
for she took a strange delight in tears; and often when the virgins of
the hamlet were assembled at their evening sports, she would steal in
among them and captivate their hearts by her tales of charming sadness.
She wore on her head a garland, composed of her father's myrtles twisted
with her mother's cypress. One day as she sat musing by the waters of
Helicon, her tears by chance fell into the spring; and ever since, the
muses' spring has tasted of the infusion. Pity was commanded by Jupiter
to follow the steps of her mother through the world, dropping balm into
the wounds she made, and binding up the hearts she had broken. She
follows with her hair loose, her bosom bare and throbbing, her garments
torn by the briars, and her feet bleeding with the roughness of the
path. The nymph is mortal, for so is her mother; and when she has
finished her destined course upon earth, they shall both expire
together, and Love be again united to Joy, his immortal and
long-betrothed bride.

* * * * *



THE CONTEMPORARY TRAVELLER.