POE TRY.

TWO AGAINST FATE.

L" When a child is born among the Thracians, all its kindred sit roundabout it in a circle, and weep for the woes it will have to undergo, now that it has come into the world, making mention of every ill that falls to the lot of man." .—HEROD0TII8, "Terpsichore," 4..1 THEY all came round thy cradle, little brown head,

Bringing their shrill forebodings of disaster; Bent crone and barren beldame, how they sped, Each with the dreariest tale her tongue could master But thou and I Cared not : they would be silent by and by.

The heroes of thy kindred, little brown head, Bearing a burden deep of lamentation, Wept as they spoke : the maidens newly-wed,

Trembling, declared thy dark predestination:

But I and thou Lay hushed, close, close together, even as now.

Ah me ! but when they had left us, little brown head, The Ills that they had summoned lingered after: On every side I heard the stealthy tread, The wailing voices and the mocking laughter,.-.I saw them creep And lay malignant looks upon thy sleep.

For Care stooped low above thee, little brown head,

And Pain caressed thee on the hands and feet, And Fear's black shadow filled the dusk with dread, And Famine breathed on thee—my sweet, my sweet And Grief, who knelt Against thy side—her very tears I felt.

And False Love smiling faintly, little brown head, And Broken Hope that turns the world to gall, And Sickness, and Despair,—I saw them spread Their malison o'er thee that art my all ; Impotent, still, I lay and listened : they must have their will.

Last of all, Death,—not fearful, little brown head, But like a hooded mother, soft and dim, Drew near with rustling garments, and did shed

Clear drops of blessing o'er thine every limb,—

Death, at whose sight Those other phantoms dwindled and took flight.

Alas, for thee and me, my little brown head !

Have I then lured thee into snares of sorrow?

Was it for this, for this, the long days led My weary steps to that divinest morrow, That golden hour, When the sealed bud broke to the perfect flow'r P How may I foil those Evils, little brown head,

How may I blunt the weapons they are shaping To wound thee sore? Mine eyes uncomforted

Can see no crevice for our joy's escaping.

What! shall we two Quail and surrender, then, as others do P No! let us fight and face them, little brown head, Through desperate battle waxing ever bolder, Selling our life-blood dear. Yea, I being dead, Should I forego the conflict P At thy shoulder, Yet will I wield A broken sword in the unequal field.

Thus upon Fate we trample, little brown head; Her promises and threats, alike unstable, Shall rift and shift before us : in her stead Stands Love unconquered and unconquerable, Clad all in fire,

Opening the doorways of the heart's desire.

So to the end. . . What foe shall make or mar That plenitude of peace, when, warfare ended, Wild thyme and clover and the evening star Keep watch above us, in one dreaming blended P When I and thou Lie hushed, close, close together, even as now.

MAY BYRON.