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Orpheus.

Orpheus. Vanished for evermore

From sunshine and green earth, from life and me;
I have not won her back to roam along the lea,
To weave new garlands by the river shore:
She is twice lost and I am desolate.

Before I tuned a lamentable song

To melt the spirit of Persephone,

And sorrow soothed me ere false hope grew strong;

Now all my foolish tears are desccrate.

One said to soothe his misery,

If God vouchsafe to blind his eyes,
To feed upon the fattening husk of lies,
Drenching the clear-eyed spirit in vanity."
She wooed me fair and graciously to stay,
The queen with smooth and dusky hair,
And visage cut so shadowy clear,

You could not tell if she were dark or fair,

And ashen ghostly eyes:

She said that I should come again a rougher way:

What did she mean? I am too tired to care;

Why was I then more wise?

Vanished for evermore

From sunshine and green earth, but not from me:

Beyond the unfruitful shore,

Where the nine rivers blend

Stormy complaints and moans and wranglings without end,

In one hoarse hopeless roar.

Surely she waits for me, while I must flee,

Rushing no whither, wandering to and fro,

From the sharp lash of woe,

While madness hunts me and death beckons me.

The mænads roam more happily than I,

For drunken with one kiss,

Resting not by night or day,

Heeding not the weary way,

They hurry on the track till they espy
The face of him who only is their bliss-

They wander hope-besotted till they die

Before they feel despair:

ORPHEUS.

Or drop down overwearied, one by one,
On lonely mountain heights,

To live through all they have enjoyed or done
In dreams of many nights,

Till friendly hands shall bear

Tame bodies to the prison of still homes,

Whence no one after roams

To find the kiss of any god at all

Though the red vintage call,

Though luscious Autumn or green golden Spring

Flush other veins with blood of revelry;

They sit at home and sing

'A silly lullaby:

And call their bondage purity,

Each arching her sleek neck beneath the yoke

For her dull lord to stroke,

Fate's fool more patient and more wise than I.

Manades. Come and be at one with us,

Kiss and sing and run with us;

By hill and dale, by meadow and brake,
Come, for we have a thirst to slake,
For we are athirst for blood,

Of man or beast, it is one to us,

For our thirst is very ravenous,

Who have drunken deep of the blood of the god,

Who hath swept through our veins with a fiery flood,
And hath blinded our eyes with his ivy rod.

Orpheus. I kiss no maids that walk on earthly sod.

It were not hard to find that rougher way:
It wearies her to wait while I delay;
Although she rests and feels the ruler's hand
Smooth her blown hair, while she

Is nestling at her ease,

On the broad footstool of Persephone,

Whose mighty purple knees

Are very motherly outspread

To prop her little golden head,

Who has no need to stand.

And all the flowers of earth that grow by night,

And wear a ghostly livery of white,

White and pale green with fading purple stains,

Flourish for ever there and through the gloom look bright.
Only I think smooth chains

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Link if they do not load her clinging hands,
And soft unsandalled feet;

While close behind her stands,

Casting unloving looks upon my sweet,
Lest she a second time should go away,
One of the inexorable three,

Who suffer not the sun to stray,

And they look upward hungrily for me,
Through the black vault of hell.

What would they have I cannot tell,
But only this I know,

If I were bound with her below,

She might be loosed, she would not wish to go.

Manades. Musing and mourning still?

Come, make ready the ivy spear,

Drive along the lumpish steer,

Quicken his pace with a touch of fear,

Ah! that was blood which started on the goad.

Come, for we must not loiter on the road,

Come, dance with blither cheer,

Lest we turn to look for a victim here,
Because sunset and sacrifice are near.

Orpheus. Maidens, I do not fear the ivy rod.

Yes, they will lead me by a ready way,
And I shall reach the goal before my guides;
For now Time's troublous tides

Shall cast me high upon a quiet shore,

Whence I shall hear the billows roar,

Whose bloody spray shall never wet me more.

Yes, we shall rest together quietly,

Quietly, and not wearily;

One thing which does not change

Amid all other change makes weariness;

There are no changes there.

It will be very strange

To have no hope, and not to feel despair;

To have so little joy and yet to feel no pain.

One thought's sweet slumberous stress

Shall bind us closelier than a chain,

While everlastingly we think

By gentle Lethe's reedy brink,

For Lethe still flows nearest to the throne,

We have been parted twice, we shall not part again.

But all her smiles shall not be mentioned then,
Nor all the worship which I had of men,

But we shall sit beside the ruler's knee,

And kiss among the crowd to feel we are alone,
Although the still queen see

Myriads of myriads in her vassalage,

We shall not care,

We two shall be alone with her,

Two tame doves with clipped wings in one grey cage.
Thy last thought was of me, mine is of thee;

And the last thought of earth is everlasting there.

Manades. We have bidden thee once, we have bidden thee twice,

We have bidden thee twice, and thou wouldst not hear,

Hearken now as we bid thee thrice,

Lest if Bacchus be nothing in thine eyes,

Thy quivering flesh mend the Bacchanals' cheer,

So join in our revel and be thou wise.

Orpheus. Both now and heretofore I praise your God.

Manades. Oh, what a glorious sacrifice!

A Manas. What sweet and delicate blood!

Orpheus. Eurydice!

G. A. SIMCOX.

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Our Old Pictures.

THE process of "cleaning" the National Gallery pictures, so much and justly animadverted upon some years ago, has been carried on more or less ever since. I cannot help remarking upon the practice, in the hope it may lead to a discontinuance of the very positive injuries caused by it to works of such intrinsic merit.

In order to do this, and induce all those who have the love of excellence at heart to express themselves emphatically, I will refer them to the present condition of those pictures cleaned years back, and to those recently done, during the last recess, and now exposed to view. I take upon myself this very unwelcome duty for one reason only-to aid in the better conservation of works that cannot possibly be replaced. And publicly, because it is a national matter, and thus may more readily gain the immediate attention of the trustees of the National Gallery, who, I take for granted, have the power of stopping it. It will be well to show, as can be shown, the causes from which such sad results

ensue.

The idea of restoring pictures some centuries old to their original keynote, or scale of brightness, arises in a misconception of what brightness really is. It is confounded with the whiteness characteristic of modern oilpaintings, which, in structural or intrinsic qualities, have nothing whatever in common with those of the old masters. If the cleaners really appreciated this distinction, they would not make the attempt to raise the scale of these old works to the whiteness of the modern. A ruby, although of so dark a tint, is bright in the sense that a diamond is, though not in the same degree. The delicate complexion of a little infant is many degrees removed from the whiteness of its linen. Failing to observe these facts in Nature, they do not see how truly the workmen of past time represented them. The relative value of every local colour is as truly given in their pictures as in nature. This oversight furnishes a sort of excuse, or, at least, explanation, for their proceedings, mistaking lowness of tone for dirt, and whiteness for brightness. It does not explain the logic which argues that time will mellow and perfect modern paintings," or explain tie motive for taking from the old paintings what they allege time to have accomplished. This misconception is their only excuse. Many honest men do conscientiously follow false conclusions. I will endeavour to help towards getting rid of such conclusions, and, I trust, in such a way as will be acceptable and intelligible to students and lovers of art. Of course I