d Tiber rolls his river As fresh by the Sylvan's cave.
But my brothers are dead and gone; And far away
From their graves I stray,
And dream of the past alone!

IV. And the sun of the north is chill; And keen is the northern gale;
Alas for the Song of the Argive hill; And the dance in the Cretan vale!
The youth of the earth is o'er, And its breast is rife
With the teeming life
Of the golden Tribes no more!

V. My race are more blest than I, Asleep in their distant bed;
'T were better, be sure, to die Than to mourn for the buried Dead:
To rove by the stranger streams, At dusk and dawn
A lonely faun,
The last of the Grecian's dreams.

As the song ended a shadow crossed the moonlight, that lay white and
lustrous before the aperture of the cavern; and Nymphalin, looking up,
beheld a graceful yet grotesque figure standing on the sward without,
and gazing on the group in the cave. It was a shaggy form, with a goat's
legs and ears; but the rest of its body, and the height of the stature,
like a man's. An arch, pleasant, yet malicious smile played about its
lips; and in its hand it held the pastoral pipe of which poets have
sung,--they would find it difficult to sing to it!

"And who art thou?" said Fayzenheim, with the air of a hero.

"I am the last lingering wanderer of the race which the Romans
worshipped; hither I followed their victorious steps, and in these green
hollows have I remained. Sometimes in the still noon, when the leaves of
spring bud upon the whispering woods, I peer forth from my rocky lair,
and startle the peasant with my strange voice and stranger shape. Then
goes he home, and puzzles his thick brain with mopes and fancies, till
at length he imagines me, the creature of the South! one of his northern
demons, and his poets adapt the apparition to their barbarous lines."

"Ho!" quoth the silver king, "surely thou art the origin of the fabled
Satan of the cowled men living whilom in yonder ruins, with its horns
and goatish limbs; and the harmless faun has been made the figuration
of the most implacable of fiends. But why, O wanderer of the South,
lingerest thou in these foreign dells? Why returnest thou not to the
bi-forked hill-top of old Parnassus, or the wastes around the yellow
course of the Tiber?"

"My brethren are no more," said the poor faun; "and the very faith that
left us sacred and unharmed is departed. But here all the spirits not of
mortality are still honoured; and