To lay the Laurel where thine Ashes lie!



LETTER--To Lucian of Samosata



In what bower, oh Lucian, of your rediscovered Islands Fortunate are
you now reclining; the delight of the fair, the learned, the witty,
and the brave? In that clear and tranquil climate, whose air
breathes of "violet and lily, myrtle, and the flower of the vine,"


Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the Rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not,


among the music of all birds, and the wind-blown notes of flutes
hanging on the trees, methinks that your laughter sounds most
silvery sweet, and that Helen and fair Charmides are still of your
company. Master of mirth, and Soul the best contented of all that
have seen the world's ways clearly, most clear-sighted of all that
have made tranquillity their bride, what other laughers dwell with
you, where the crystal and fragrant waters wander round the shining
palaces and the temples of amethyst?

Heine surely is with you; if, indeed, it was not one Syrian soul
that dwelt among alien men, Germans and Romans, in the bodily