is then, I ask, O thou beloved Pan,
And all ye other gods: Help, as ye can,
That I may prosper in the inner man;

Grant ye that what I have or yet may win
Of those the outer things may be akin
And constantly at peace within;

May I regard the wise the rich, and care
Myself for no more gold, as my earth-share,
Than he who's of an honest heart can bear.

--John H. Finley

BY THE ROMAN ROAD

"Poetry and paganism do not mix very well nowadays. The Hellenism of
our versifiers is, as a rule, not Greek; it is derived partly from
Swinburne and partly from Pater. But now and then there comes a poet
who has real appreciation of the beauty of classic days; who can
express sincerely and vividly the haunting charm of Greek or Roman
culture. Such an one is the anonymous writer of these lines, which
appeared in the London _Punch_."

The wind it sang in the pine-tops, it sang like a humming harp;
The smell of the sun on the bracken was wonderful sweet and sharp.
As sharp as the piney needles, as sweet as the gods were good,
For the wind it sung of the old gods, as I came through the wood!
It sung how long ago the Romans made a road,
And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode.

It sang of the wayside altars (the pine-tops sighed like the surf),
Of little shrines uplifted, of stone and scented turf,
Of youths divine and immortal, of maids as white as the snow
That glimmered among the thickets a mort of years ago!
All in the cool of dawn, all in the twilight gray,
The gods came up from Italy along the Roman way.

The altar smoke it has drifted and faded afar on the hill;
No wood-nymphs haunt the hollows; the reedy pipes are still;
No more the youth Apollo shall walk in his sunshine clear;
No more the maid Diana shall follow the fallow-deer
(The woodmen grew so wise, the woodmen grew so old,
The gods went back to Italy--or so the story's told!).

But the woods are full of voices and of shy and secret things
The badger down by the brook-side, the flick of a woodcock's wings,
The plump of a falling fir-cone, the pop of the sunripe pods,
And the wind that sings in the pine-tops the song of the ancient gods--
The song of the wind that says the Romans made a road,
And the gods came up from Italy and found them an abode!

A NYMPH'S LAMENT

O Sister Nymphs, how shall we dance or sing
Remembering
What was and is not? How sing any more
Now Aphrodite's rosy reign is o'er?
For on the forest-floo