Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.
Then "Ruthless Aphroditè," Daphnis said,
"Accursed Aphroditè, foe to man!
Say'st thou mine hour is come, my sun hath set?
Dead as alive, shall Daphnis work Love woe."

Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. "Fly to Mount Ida, where the swain (men say) And Aphroditè-to Anchises fly:

There are oak-forests; here but galingale,
And bees that make a music round the hives.

Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.
"Adonis owed his bloom to tending flocks,
And smiting hares, and bringing wild beasts down.
Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song.
"Face once more Diomed: tell him 'I have slain
The herdsman Daphnis ; now I challenge thee.'

Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. "Farewell, wolf, jackal, mountain-prisoned bear! Ye'll see no more by grove or glade or glen Your herdsman Daphnis! Arethuse, farewell, And the bright streams that pour down Thymbris' side. Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. "I am that Daphnis, who lead here my kine, Bring here to drink my oxen and my calves.

Begin, sweet Maids, begin the woodland song. "Pan, Pan, oh whether great Lyceum's crags Thou haunt'st to-day, or mightier Mænalus, Come to the Sicel isle! Abandon now Rhium and Helicè, and the mountain-cairn (That e'en gods cherish) of Lycaon's son!

Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. "Come, king of song, o'er this my pipe, compact With wax and honey-breathing, arch thy lip: For surely I am torn from life by Love.

Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song. "From thicket now and thorn let violets spring, Now let white lilies drape the juniper,

And pines grow figs, and nature all go wrong:
For Daphnis dies. Let deer pursue the hounds,
And mountain-owls outsing the nightingale.

Forget, sweet Maids, forget your woodland song."

So spake he, and he never spake again.
Fain Aphroditè would have raised his head;

But all his thread was spun. So down the stream

Went Daphnis: closed the waters o'er a head
Dear to the Nine, of nymphs not unbeloved.

Now give me goat and cup; that I may milk
The one, and pour the other to the Muse.
Fare ye well, Muses, o'er and o'er farewell!
I'll sing strains lovelier yet in days to be.

GOATHERD.

Thyrsis, let honey and the honeycomb
Fill thy sweet mouth, and figs of Ægilus:
For ne'er cicala trilled so sweet a song.

Here is the cup: mark, friend, how sweet it smells:
The Hours, thou 'lt say, have washed it in their well.
Hither, Cissætha! Thou, go milk her! Kids,

Be steady, or your pranks will rouse the ram.

ANDRE THEURIET.

THEURIET, ANDRÉ, a French novelist and poet; born at Marlyle-Roi, October 8, 1833. Descended of a family of Lorraine, he was educated at the College of Bar-le-Duc, studied law, and received his licentiate at Paris in 1857. About this time he entered the office of the Minister of Finance; but turning to literature, he published in the same year (1857), in the "Revue des Deux Mondes," a poem entitled "In Memoriam." To the same review, and to the "Revue de Paris," he contributed numerous little poems, which were issued in 1867 under the collective title "Chemin des Bois." This collection established his reputation as a poet, and was crowned by the Academy in 1868. Ten years later Theuriet received the decoration of the Legion of Honor. His later poetical works include "Les Paysans de l'Argonne" (1871); "Le Bleu et le Noir" (1873); "Les Nids" (1879); "Le Livre de la Payse" (1882); "Nos Oiseaux" (1885); "La Ronde des Saisons et des Mois" (1891). His novels are numerous; the first being "Nouvelles Intimes," published in 1870. Among these may be included his "Sous Bois," and his "Le Journal de Tristan" (1883). "La Chanoinesse" was published in 1893.

AN EASTER STORY.

(From "Stories of Every-Day Life.")

THERE was at Seville, in the faubourg of Triana, a boy of fifteen years named Juanito el Morenito. He was an orphan; had grown by good luck, like a weed, on the pavement of Triana: sleeping now out of doors, now in the stable of a lodging-house; living on a handful of sweet acorns, or a fried fish, bought at a discount, and earning his living in a hundred little occupations, of which the most lucrative was selling programmes at the doors of the theatres. In spite of his rags he was a pretty boy; with luminous eyes, smiling mouth, and curly hair, and so deeply tanned that he had been surnamed Morenito. He had, moreover, a little gypsy blood in his veins; and like the