So potent that who sips must sip again,
Or else the length of life is length of pain
Wherein to cultivate the cynic's page,

Himself a thing and the dull world a cage.

Each had the love that makes the bosom swell,
Each knew the other's love, and loved it well,

For looks and sighs have tongues. Yet spoke he not
As will a lover who has all forgot

But that which crowns his love; for how could he,
Unless he turned from truth to villainy,

Reward the old man for his blessings lent

By robbing him of that which heaven had sent
To comfort him in age? and how could she,
A maiden reared in all humility,

Give up her simple ways for princely rank?
So Crispus from a bitter goblet drank,
And oft he thought upon it: "Let me not
Plunder the goodness of another's lot

To feed mine own. No, no, then should I be
The very essence of foul falsity;

I should but feel the semblant of a man,
And not a man indeed, and such a ban
Would sting and overcloud the sunniest day,
And that rich pearl which I had ta'en away
Would be a canker worm instead of joy."

In all that is on earth there is annoy.
Alone Lucille would say: "He loves me well,
And yet I know not; how may a maiden tell
Whether it be love that makes a bosom swell,
Or whether it be breath inhaled at pleasure,
And used deceitfully? O who can measure
An inward passion by an outward sign?
Or Love's results and potent laws define?
A youth may sigh at will, or he may keep
A pallid face by lack of food and sleep,
Dress carelessly, say pretty words by rote,
Assume dejection, and sweet ditties quote;
This he may do whether he love or not.
No, 'tis my cruelty, and I do blot
Goodness and truth. He has a faithful eye,

And love seems in the wind when he is by."
VOL. X., N.S. 1873.

'Twas sultry evening, and Prince Crispus slept Upon a couch. Lucilla softly stept

To watch him in remembrance, for she
Had been beside him in his misery.

Soon suddenly he rose and in alarm

That came from joy, not sorrow, clasp'd her arm,
And said, with trembling of his voice and frame,
"Yes, love, it will be so; it is the same.

O heaven, I have been full in the blaze
Of paradise. Where am I? Silvery rays,
Are you Lucilla? What a time of bliss!
O melody, be still, or I shall miss
My sense and sink to everlasting swoon.
You are Lucilla? Yes, that is the moon,
But it is dull that was so crystal white
Ere I did sleep. Forgive me, love, I run
From reason, I behold the glorious sun,
And soon the day will die. O what delight
Has charmed my every sense! and even you
Have been my partner and companion true.
Reality of sweetest dreams! my soul,

Have I not touched the brink? If this the goal
We rise to let the dull and tedious hours
Come quick as drops of rain in thunder showers,
Till all my days are dead and—if I live
And you are not a shade, Lucille, forgive
My wandering. Though I again have slipped
From up above to earth, yet I have dipped
My being into beauty, and I feel

Celestial fineness through my nature steal.

The scum that clogged my veins, the heavy slime

That weighed me down is gone. O dream sublime! I'll take thee as an omen from the sky—

A secret and a promise, too, that I

May hope, Lucilla, that-Lucilla, why

Do you so turn? Have I been mocked above?

Was it a double dream, and is my love
But wasted hope? Give me a sign, or I-
O thanks to you and heaven-shall I cry,
Or weep, or laugh with happiness, or sigh?
Now could I kiss your lips till they were dry.
I'm through the blue again, and it doth seem

I wake in ecstasy to find my dream
Giving to airy things vitality,
To vision substance and reality.

Lend me your hand. Come closer, dear,
So I may gently speak and give your ear
The purport of my flight in whisperings.
O for Daphne's pipe and Psyche's wings!
That we might rise with music to the tip
Of rosy-cushioned clouds, and softly sip
Ethereal sweets. I would I might convey
My inward pulse of joy to you, or say
As I do feel. Yet I will try to make
A little boat of Fancy that may take

Your mind with mine, and you perchance may peep
Into the mazy strangeness of my sleep,
And in relating, if I downward sink,

New inspiration from your face I'll drink,
And your blue eyes will lift me to the scene;
And I shall be again where I have been."

Their hands were linked together in a kiss Of tremulous love, and into dreams of bliss Lucilla's joyful mind already ran.

Sinking upon his pillow he began,

With half-closed eyes, and on his face a smile:
"You think it is my weakness doth beguile
My sense, Lucille. No, better and not sad,
And though a little weak, I am not mad;
Or I should still be shrinking to the grave
Without the power a wandering soul to save.
Faint with a mighty love I dared not tell :
It is not so, Lucille, I love you well.
I may not keep my love unspoken now,
For I have taken in my dream a vow
When next that we should meet to tell it you;
And though I vowed believing I and you
Were long ago immortals it doth seem
I may not trifle with my holy dream.
Though I was in Elysium at its birth,

The good was painted for my help on earth.
This day I dreamt, Lucilla, I and you
Went from the earth: our souls together flew

Ꮓ Ꮓ 2

Full of new love to heaven. The night is fine:
I'll tell thee all, Lucilla, in the shine

Of setting sun, and we will sit at ease
Upon yon sunny bank among the trees."

O for the speech of deities to tell

The joys true lovers know beneath the spell
Of youthful passion! The delicious spring
And summertime voluptuous cannot bring
The heart to such serenity of bliss.

How sweet the loving faith, the long warm kiss
When lips to lips bring blushes to the cheek,
Conveying messages they could not speak!
How sweet the meeting with its lusty showers
Of favours, and how sweet a lover's flowers!
How sweet the parting if the mate could stay
To kiss and part and part and kiss for aye!
How sweet the earnest mutual embrace !
How sweet the amorous uplifted face
And truthful eyes, brimful of tender looks,
Speaking a language richer far than books.
Or summer song by poet put together
Under a shady tree in sunny weather!

And he discoursing music to her ear
Led her along the path, and she drew near-
Drew very near-unto her lover's side,
And listened and looked up to him with pride.
Upon her cheek, full healthy in its youth,

Sat tears of tenderness, a touch of truth;
And he became acquainted with her thought,
Could somewhat solve a mystic soul, and sought

A soothing shelter for his melancholy,

A charm for chill as is red-berried holly

In winter hedges.

Marcus saw them go,

Like Eve and Adam in the golden glow;
And passing under branches cool and green,
They went away and never more were seen.

THE END.

VENUS ON THE SUN'S FACE.

BY R. A. PROCTOR, B.A. (CAMBRIDGE),

HONORARY SECRETARY OF THE ROYAL ASTRONOMICAL SOCIETY, AUTHOR OF "SATURN," "THE SUN," "OTHER WORLDS THAN OURS," &c.

ACH evening during the month of April the planet o Love could be seen in the west for a few hours after sunset. She set earlier and earlier each successive night-overtaking the sun, as it were-and towards the On the 5th of May

end of April she could no longer be detected. she had overtaken the sun, passing him at a distance of about three times his own breadth above or to the north of his disc. When these lines appear she will be a morning star. This passage by the sun is the last made by Venus (at least when on the hither side of him) before the long desired and now famous transit of December 9, 1874, when, instead of passing by the sun, either above or below his disc, as she usually does, she will pass right across his face.

So much has been said of late respecting this approaching phenomenon, and so much importance is deservedly attached to it, that my readers will probably be interested by a brief and simple account of the matter. In particular some may desire to know what has been the special aim of the controversy recently and still in progress. Before entering on these matters, I will make a few remarks on the history of former transits.

The first occasion on which Venus was ever seen on the sun's face was on November 24, 1639 (Old Style), corresponding to December 4 (New Style). It is rather singular that then, somewhat as at present, doubts had arisen, owing to a difference of opinion between an astronomer of established reputation and one less known to the scientific world. The Belgian astronomer Lansberg had stated in his "Tables of the Motion of Venus" that no transit would occur in 1639. Young Horrox, while preparing himself for practical observation, undertook (apparently from sheer love of science) the computation of Venus's motions from the tables of Lansberg. These tables were so highly valued by their author that he had spoken of them as superior to all others, quantum lenta solent inter viburna cupressi But Horrox recognised many imperfections in them, and at length, as he says, "broke off the useless computation, resolved for the future