Never
Since then hath any mention of the man
Reached me. Nor have I ought on which to rely
Except a dim remembrance. Yet in me
A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows
With growing years,--that, far beyond those hills
I' the west, upon high plains, among his peers,
The fool hath long been deemed philosopher.
_Athenoeum_, 1876.
BALLADE OF THE HAUNTED STREAM
EDWARD G. BENEDICT '82
Like some fair girl who hastes to meet her swain,
Yet hesitates each step with maiden fear,
So the still stream glides downward to the main,
Pausing at times in fern-set pools,--and here,
Where bend the willow branches to the clear
Deep pool beneath, and where the forest hoar
Seems whispering old tales of magic lore,
They say by night the fairies dance in glee,
And on the moss beside the curving shore
The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.
From beds in purple buds where they have lain
Until the mystic midnight time drew near,
To chimes of hare-bells and the far-off strain
Of forest melodies, the elves appear
In all the gorgeousness of goblin gear.
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