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The gods, like phantoms, come and go

Over the wave-washed ocean-hall; Above their heads the wild winds blow; They groan, they shiver to and fro –

"Pan, Pan !" those phantoms call.

O Pan, great Pan! thou art not dead,

Nor dost thou haunt that weedy place, Though blowing winds hear not thy tread,

And silver runlets miss thy face; Where ripe nuts fall thou hast no state;

Where deep glens murmur thou art dumb; By lonely meres thou dost not wait: Where roll the living waves of fate

I feel thee go and come!

O piteous one! In wintry days

Over the city falls the snow;
Then, where it whitens smoky ways,

I see a shade flit to and fro;
Over the dull street hangs a cloud, -

It parts, an ancient face fits by. 'Tis thine! 'tis thou! nor stern, nor proud, Dimly thou futterest o'er the crowd,

With a thin, human cry.

Ghost-like, O Pan! thou hoverest still,

An old, old face, with dull, dumb stare; On moonless nights thy breath blows chill

In the street-walker's dripping hair ; Thy ragged woe from street to struet

Goes mist-like, constant day and night; But often, where the black waves beat: Thou hast a smile most strangely sweet

For honest hearts, and light!

fables on the stocks. I have been rewriting, Le Gland' and La Citrouille.' This was knocked down for one hundred sixty-thrce francs.

MR. CHARLES READE, in a letter to one of the evening London journals, thus disposes of a literary adversary : “On the 1st of April I did the public a good turn in the humble capacity of a critic: I introduced into a certain stronghold of sham character, and of language such as man never yet spake, viz., • The British Theatre,' the true types and natural dialogue of Anthony Trollope. The public was pleased, and called for the author. I did not respond to this in person, not being the author. In spite of this public disclamation, and in the teeth of the bills and advertisements, which all gave Mr. Trollope the place of honor, certain playwrights, disguised as criticasters, agreed among themselves to violate literary courtesy, to decompose the comedy without first studying the novel of which it is an abridgment, and to slander me for that share in it which they chose to assign me on conjecture.

« Did ever the malice of rivals, disguised as judges, go farther than this? I turned the grosser libellers over to my solicitor; but with my good friend, the Daily Telegraph, I took a more lenient course; I merely remonstrated in a letter. Strange to say, the writs soothed my raging enemies like balm of Gilead, and even elicited some novel expressions of friendship and esteem from them; while the friendly remonstrance irritated my friend to madness. Foaming with ill-disguised fury, he launched a whole column of stale cant about the irritability of authors and the patient dignity of anonymi, who bear that deep injury, contradiction, so much better than authors bear that stroke of a feather, defamation. I had stated in my letter that his article on Shilly Shally' was written by a playwright in cisguise, who would never venture to indorse his libel: this the editor had now the hardihood to deny; and even stigmatized it as an unworthy surmise.

Now, this little game was all very well to play off on a Devonshire incumbent, or a shepherdess in the Vale of Langollen; but I happened to be behind the scenes of the Daily Telegraph, and to know the name, and the antecedents in slander, of the very playwright who wrote the said article. I therefore wrote to my turgid but inaccurate friend, a few lines, studiously civil, — for, after all, the man was only standing by his own nigger through thick and thin; which is a sort of oblique morality, and implies virility, and pledged myself to his public to prove on oath, before an incorruptible tribunal, every syllable I had written in the columns of the Daily Telegraph.' These lines, brief and civil as they were, the editor suppressed : and, as I hear that suppression has misled his public, - a very large one, - I ask leave to defeat that unfair suppression in your columns. I shall not, on this occasion, sue the Daily Telegraph, because the proprietors have done me one act of justice, — they have printed my letter at my request; but I pledge myselt, in the conduct of the other suits, to prove that every syllable I wrote to the Telegraph is the exact truth.

“I have now, sir, for the second time in my dramatic career, been the butt of a trade conspiracy. On the first occasion, a drunken creature was egged on to howl down my drama by brute noise; an act no criticaster had ever been guilty of before. This time the game is defamation of a work which is as chaste as ice, and as pure as snow. Repeated conspiracies of many against one are not very common; so I hope you will excuse this solitary hint from a writer of whom, if he would only be obliging and die, his very enemies would perhaps discover that he passed his life in doing justice and suffering injustice."

Where'er thy shadowy vestments fly,

There comes across the waves of strife, Across the souls of all close by,

The gleam of some forgotten life: There is a sense of waters clear,

A scent like flowers in forest nooks; Strangc-plumaged birds seem flitting near; The cold brain blossoms, lives that hear

Murmur like running brooks.

And when thou passest, human eyes

Look in each other and are wet ; Simple or gentle, weak or wise,

Alikc are full of tender fret; And then the noble and the base

Raise common glances to the sky; -
And, lo! the phantom of thy face,
While sad and low through all the place

Thrills thy thin, human cry!
Christ help thee, Pan! canst thou not go,

Now all the other gods are fled ?
Why dost thou flutter to and fro

When all the sages deem thee dead? Or if thou yet wilt live and dream,

Why leave the vales of harvest fair? Why quit the glades of wood and stream, And haunt the streets with eyes that gleam Through white and holy hair?

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

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PAN. " Pan, Pan, is dead!”.

E. B, BROWNING, The broken wine-cups of the gods

Lie scattered in the waters deep, Where the tall sea-flag blows and nods

Over the shipwrecked scaman's slecp;

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