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I a, At the darkly sullen west, Of the sainst the breast

I alints on the crest Of the troubled wave, beguiling Shipwrecked Hope to its long rest

I a, From a soul that I hold dear, And the music of whose beauty Fades a dead strain on old through palsied hands,-- See; the dead'ning Sun is sighing His last note in red'ning bands

So I', Flows life's river to the sea Death s that ache for thee

"Yes," I said, when he had finished "I shall have to adinson's poem and Cleopatra's name But here, try this," and I threw an old copy of the Atlantic Monthly upon the table Maitland opened it and laughed "This may be mere chance, Doc," he said, "but it is reazine toward nificance of Central Park's New Monument Some of the Difficulties that Attended its Transportation and Erection By Jas were indeed getting interesting

"Magazines and newspapers," I said, "seeether too much in your line We'll try a book this time Here," and I pulled the first one that came to hand, "is a copy of Tennyson's Poems I fancy it will trouble you to find your reference in that" Maitland took it in silence, and, opening it at randoan to read The result surprised him even more than it did me He had chanced upon these verses from "A Dream of Fair Women": "'We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit Laypt! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife

"'And the wild kiss when fresh from war's alarms, My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die!

"'And there he died! And when I heard h'd forth with life, I would not brook my fear Of the other! With a worm I balked his fame What else was left? look here!'

"With that she tore her robe apart and half The polished argent of her breast to sight Laid bare Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspic's bite"