orders upon his list than he has
either time or inclination to execute. Goethe has let us into the secret
of the young German artist's life. Let us look upon him in the dawnings
of his fame, before he is summoned to adorn the stately halls of Munich
with frescoes from the Niebelungen Lied.

* * * * *

THE ARTIST'S MORNING SONG.

My dwelling is the Muses' home--
What matters it how small?
And here, within my heart, is set
The holiest place of all.

When, waken'd by the early sun,
I rise from slumbers sound,
I see the ever-living forms
In radiance group'd around.

I pray, and songs of thanks and praise
Are more than half my prayer,
With simple notes of music, tuned
To some harmonious air.

I bow before the altar then,
And read, as well I may,
From noble Homer's master-work,
The lesson for the day.

He takes me to the furious fight,
Where lion warriors throng;
Where god-descended heroes whirl
In iron cars along.

And steeds go down before the cars;
And round the cumber'd wheel,
Both friend and foe are rolling now,
All blood from head to heel!

Then comes the champion of them all,
Pelides' friend is he,
And crashes through the dense array,
Though thousands ten they be!

And ever smites that fiery sword
Through helmet, shield, and mail;
Until he falls by craft divine,
Where might could not prevail.

Down from the glorious pile he rolls,
Which he himself had made,
And foemen trample on the limbs
From which they shrank afraid.

Then start I up, with arms in hand,
What arms the painter bears;
And soon along my kindling wall
The fight at Troy appears.

On! on again! The wrath is here
Of battle rolling red;
Shield strikes on shield, and sword on helm,
And dead men fall on dead!

I throng into the inner press,
Where loudest rings the din;
For there, around their hero's corpse,
Fight on his furious kin!

A rescue! rescue! bear him hence
Into the leaguer near;
Pour balsam in his glorious wounds,
And weep above his bier.

And when from that hot trance I pass,
Great Love, I feel thy charm;
There hangs my lady's picture near--
A picture yet so warm!

How fair she was, reclining the