WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY R. H. STODDARD.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful;
It was the jewel of my cave; I had
A corner where I hid it in the moss,
Between the jagged crevices of rock,
Where no one but myself could find it out;
But when a nymph, or wood-god passed my door,
I filled it to the brim with bravest wine,
And offered them a draught, and told them Jove
Had nothing finer, richer at his feasts,
Though Ganymede and Hebe did their best:
"His nectar is not richer than my wine,"
Said I, "and for the goblet, look at it!"
But I have broken my divinest cup
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

II.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
Sometimes my brothers of the woods, the fauns,
Held gay carousals with me in my cave;
I had a skin of Chian wine therein,
Of which I made a feast; and all who drank
From out my cup, a feast within itself,
Made songs about the bright immortal shapes
Engraven on the side below their lips:
But we shall never drain it any more,
And never sing about it any more;
For I have broken my divinest cup
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

III.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For Pan was 'graved upon it, rural Pan;
He stood in horror in a marshy place
Clasping a bending reed; he thought to clasp
Syrinx, but clasped a reed, and nothing more!
There was another picture of the god,
When he had learned to play upon the flute;
He sat at noon within a shady bower
Piping, with all his listening herd around;
(I thought at times I saw his fingers move,
And caught his music: did I dream or not?)
Hard by the Satyrs danced, and Dryads peeped
From out the mossy trunks of ancient trees;
And nice-eared Echo mocked him till he thought—
The simple god!—he heard another Pan
Playing, and wonder shone in his large eyes!
But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

IV.

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For Jove was there transformed into the Bull
Bearing forlorn Europa through the waves,
Leaving behind a track of ruffled foam;
Powerless with fear she held him by the horns,
Her golden tresses streaming on the winds;
In curvéd shells, young Cupids sported near,
While sea gods glanced from out their weedy caves,
And on the shore were maids with waving scarfs,
And hinds a-coming to the rescue—late!
But I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!

My goblet was exceeding beautiful.
For rosy Bacchus crowned its rich designs:
He sat within a vineyard full of grapes,
With Ariadne kneeling at his side;
His arm was thrown around her slender waist,
His head lay in her bosom, and she held
A cup, a little distance from his lips,
And teased him with it, for he wanted it.
A pair of spotted pards where sleeping near,
Couchant in shade, their heads upon their paws;
And revellers were dancing in the woods,
Snapping their jolly fingers evermore!
But all is vanished, lost, for ever lost,
For I have broken my divinest cup,
And trod its fragments in the dust of Earth!