street.
He asked them, 'Why they left his home?'
They said, 'A guest will hither come
We must not stay to meet.'

He called his boy with morning light,
Told him the vision of the night,
And bade his play be brought.
His finished page again he scanned,
Resting his head upon his hand,
Absorbed in studious thought
He knew not what the dream foreshowed:
That nought divine may hold abode
Where death's dark shade is felt:
And therefore were the Muses nine
Leaving the old poetic shrine,
Where they so long had dwelt.

II

The theatre was thronged once more,
More thickly than the day before,
To hear the half-heard song.
The day wore on. Impatience came.
They called upon Philemon's name,
With murmurs loud and long.

Some sought at length his studious cell,
And to the stage returned, to tell
What thousands strove to ask.
'The poet we have been to seek
Sate with his hand upon his cheek,
As pondering o'er his task.

'We spoke. He made us no reply.
We reverentially drew nigh,
And twice our errand told.
He answered not We drew more near
The awful mystery then was clear:
We found him stiff and cold.

'Struck by so fair a death, we stood
Awhile in sad admiring mood:
Then hastened back, to say
That he, the praised and loved of all,
Is deaf for ever to your call:
That on this self-same day,
'When here presented should have been
The close of his fictitious scene,
His life's true scene was o'er:
We seemed, in solemn silence awed,
To hear the "Farewell and applaud,"
Which he may speak no more.

'Of tears the rain gave prophecy:
The nuptial dance of comedy
Yields to the funeral train.
Assemble where his pyre must burn:
Honour his ashes in their urn:
And on another day return
To hear his songs again.'

_The Rev. Dr. Opimian._ A beautiful fiction.

_Mr. Falconer._ If it be a fiction. The supernatural is confined to
the dream. All the rest is probable; and I am willing to think it true,
dream and