g breeze. He arose from
his seat, and followed the strains down between the sweet-scented
myrtles to the entrance-gate.

There was a poor emaciated minstrel, singing for bread. The heart of
Chios was touched; he beckoned to the man, and brought him within and
set food before him.

'I like thy voice, sweet singer. Now thou art refreshed, tell me of thy
life.'

'Thou art passing good, kind sir. I was born in Delos, of Greek parents,
who died whilst I was yet a child. I was thrown upon the cold world. A
sailor crew took me up, and on board a Phoenician ship I sailed the seas
to Argos, Spain, and Gaul, and settled in the islands of the West named
Britain. There I eked out an existence, a stranger on a foreign shore. I
learned the customs of those strange people, accepted their faith, sang
their songs, married, lived the life of a Briton until my wife died--I
loved her--then my star waned. I fell sick, and pined for my Eastern
home, came back to Sidon, roamed through Syria, Galatia, Phrygia, and
here; and now, faint, weary, and tired of living, I fain would lay me
down and die. But for this cherished lyre and the pleasure of song, I
have no other joy save the memories of the past, and would like to rest
and join my only love, the British girl of far Bolerium.'

'Ah! a sad story. The same old tale. Love the leveller, affinity,
fate--one gone, the other panting to follow. Man, thou hast a good score
of summers before thee. Cheer up! Let us be joyous!'

And Chios poured forth some refreshing wine, and bade the minstrel
partake of it.

'Now sing me one of thy love-songs, and thou shalt not want for a good
meal for many a day.'

'What wouldst thou like, good sir? Shall I sing to thee a British song,
a legend of the Saronides?'

'Sing on.'

Then the wanderer rose and flung his worn mantle over his shoulders; his
wealth of dark hair flowing from under his cap, and the shadows falling
around like a veil of mystery, lowering the tone of his pale but
beautiful face.

Raising his lyre, he swept his fingers over the strings, and a burst of
harmony arose and filled the marble room; and, as it died away in
softest echoes, his sweet, clear, pathetic voice sang forth these words:

'Far away across the seas,
Borne by ever-favouring breeze,
Skim and plough the ocean's breast
To the islands of the West.

Where the blue waves kiss the land,
Where the pearls gleam on the strand,
Where the vales of B