Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander, and the spite:
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

TENNYSON.

108.- The Wine Cup.

Lycius, the Cretan prince of race divine, Like many a royal youth, was fond of wine. So, when his father died, and left him king, He spent his days and nights in reveling.

1

Show him a wine cup, he would soon lay down
His scepter, and for roses1 change his crown;
Neglectful of his people and his state,

The noble cares that make a monarch great.
One day in summer, so the story goes,
Among his seeming friends, but secret foes,

He sat and drained the wine cup; when there came

A gray-haired man, who called him by his name,

Lycius!" It was his tutor, Philocles,

Who held him when a child upon his knees.

"Lycius," the old man said, "it suits not you
To waste your life among this drunken crew.
Bethink you of your sire, and how he died
For that bright scepter lying by your side,
And of the blood your loving people shed
To keep that golden circlet on your head.
Ah! how have you repaid them?"

The prince replied, "what idle words are these?
I loved my father, and I mourned his fate;
But death must come to all men, soon or latė.
Could we recall our dear ones from their urn,2
Just as they lived and loved, 'twere well to mourn;
But, since we can not, let us smile instead:

I hold the living better than the dead.

|

urn, in allusion to the ancient custom of inclosing the cremated ashes of the dead in a funeral

1 roses 2 crown. Among the ancients it was the custom to crown with a garland of roses those sharing in a wine banquet.

urn.

My father reigned, and died: I live and reign.
As for my people, why should they complain?
Have I not ended all their deadly wars,

Bound up their wounds, and honored their old scars?
They bleed no more: enough for me and mine
The blood of the grape, the ripe, the royal wine! -
Slaves, fill my cup again!" They filled, and crowned
His brow with roses; but the old man frowned.

"Lycius," he said once more, "the state demands
Something besides the wine cup in your hands.
Resume your crown and scepter; be not blind :
Kings live not for themselves, but for mankind."

"Good Philocles," the shaméd prince replied,
His soft eye lighting with a flash of pride,
"Your wisdom has forgotten one small thing,-
I am no more your pupil, but your king.
Kings are in place of gods: remember, then,
They answer to the gods, and not to men."

"Hear, then, the gods, who speak to-day through me The sad but certain words of prophecy :

'Touch not the cup: small sins in kings are great; Be wise in time, nor further tempt your fate.'”.

“ Old man,
there is no fate, save that which lies
In our own hands that shape our destinies :
It is a dream. If I should will and do

A deed of ill, no good could thence ensue;

And, willing goodness, shall not goodness be
Sovereign, like ill, to save herself and me?
I laugh at fate."

The wise man shook his head.

"Remember what the oracles have said:

'What most he loves who rules this Cretan land, Shall perish by the wine cup in his hand.'”

"Prophet of ill! no more, or you shall die.
See how my deeds shall give your words the lie,
And baffle fate, and all who hate me
So!"
Sheer through the casement, to the court below,
He dashed the half-drained goblet in disdain,
That scattered as it flew a bloody rain.
His courtiers laughed.

But now a woman's shriek

Rose terrible without, and blanched his cheek.
He hurried to the casement in affright,
And lo! his eyes were blasted with a sight
Too pitiful to think of. Death was there,
And wringing hands, and madness, and despair.
There stood a nurse, and on her bosom lay
A dying child, whose lifeblood streamed away,
Reddening its robe like wine! It was his own,
His son, the prince that should have filled the throne
When he was dead, and ruled the Cretan land,
Slain by the wine cup from his father's hand!

STODDARD.