Bloomed kind Calypso's islet ne'er so fair.
Unbanished gods roam o'er the thymy hills,
Calm shadows slumber on the purple grapes,
Hid are the dryads near the star-gemmed rills,
Far through the moonlight wander love-lorn shapes.
Gray olives shade the dancing-naiads' smile,
Flutes loose their raptures in the murmuring stream,
These, these are visions modern cares beguil—
Echoes of the old Greek's dream."
Mr. Stryker: "That is good poetry, Brother Gunsaulus. If you would tone it down a little, and contrive to work in a touch of piety here and there, I would be glad to print it in my next volume of hymns."