One, and the Poet Priest who ministers at thy Shrine draws his auguries
from the bleeding hearts of men!

While Love hath no end, Can the Bard ever cease singing? In Kingly
and Heroic ages, 'twas of Kings and Heroes that the Poet spake. But in
these, our times, the Artisan hath his voice as well as the Monarch. The
people To-Day is King, and we chronicle his woes, as They of old did
the sacrifice of the princely Iphigenia, or the fate of the crowned
Agamemnon.

Is Odysseus less august in his rags than in his purple? Fate, Passion,
Mystery, the Victim, the Avenger, the Hate that harms, the Furies that
tear, the Love that bleeds, are not these with us Still? are not these
still the weapons of the Artist? the colors of his palette? the chords
of his lyre? Listen! I tell thee a tale--not of Kings--but of Men--not
of Thrones, but of Love, and Grief, and Crime. Listen, and but once
more. 'Tis for the last time (probably) these fingers shall sweep the
strings.

E. L. B. L.


NOONDAY IN CHEPE.


'Twas noonday in Chepe. High Tide in the mighty River City!--its banks
wellnigh overflowing with the myriad-waved Stream of Man! The toppling
wains, bearing the produce of a thousand marts; the gilded equipage
of the Millionary; the humbler, but yet larger vehicle from the green
metropolitan suburbs (the Hanging Gardens of our Babylon), in which