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Without a song; and hidden, loving dove,
With his deep breath; and bird of wakeful glen,
Whose louder song is like the voice of life,
Triumphant o'er death's image, but whose deep,
Low, lovelier note is like a gentle wife
A poor, a pensive, yet a happy one,

Stealing, when daylight's common tasks are done,
An hour for mother's work, and singing low

While her tired husband and her children sleep.

This poem by Leigh Hunt gives quite clearly and fully the services that the Dryads were supposed to render to the forests.

The subject is capable of very charming poetic treatment, as may be seen in the poem called "Rhocus," by James Russell Lowell, and from which the following selection is taken.

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A youth named Rhocus, wandering in the wood,
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall,

And, feeling pity for so fair a tree,

He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,

And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on.

But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind

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That murmured "Rhocus!" "Twas as if the leaves,
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it,
And, while he paused bewildered, yet again
It murmured "Rhocus!" softer than a breeze.
He started, and beheld with dizzy eyes

What seemed the substance of a happy dream
Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow
Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak.
It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair
To be a woman, and with eyes too meek

For any that were wont to mate with gods.
But like a goddess stood she there,

And like a goddess all too beautiful
To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.
"Rhocus, I am the Dryad of this tree,"
Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words
Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, —
"And with it I am doomed to live and die ;
The rain and sunshine are my caterers,
Nor have I other bliss than simple life;
Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give,
And with a thankful joy it shall be thine."

Then Rhocus, with a flutter at the heart,
Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold,
Answered: "What is there that can satisfy
The endless craving of the soul but love?
Give me thy love, or but the hope of that
Which must be evermore my spirit's goal."
After a little pause she said again,

But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone,
"I give it, Rhocus, though a perilous gift;
An hour before the sunset meet me here."
And straightway there was nothing he could see
But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak.

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GROUP VI.

THE BLENDING OF HISTORY AND
MYTHOLOGY.

THE story of Ariadne, through whose cleverness Theseus, the semi-mythical founder of Athens, threaded the Labyrinth and slew the Minotaur, has been written in prose repeatedly; no one has told it more acceptably than Hawthorne in "Tanglewood Tales." But the end

of this story is not satisfactory so far as the heroine is concerned, for the faithless Theseus, when he and the rest of his companions are ready to sail for home, basely deserts Ariadne, leaving her asleep on the island of Naxos.

The sequel to this tale is found in the writings of both Greek and Latin authors.

We select the following paraphrases on some of their poems.

HOW BACCHUS FINDS ARIADNE SLEEPING. [NONNUS.]

MRS. BROWNING.

When Bacchus first beheld the desolate

And sleeping Ariadne, wonder straight

Was mixed with love in his great golden eyes;

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