Hark! how the roofs with laughter sound! Anon they'll think the house goes round, For they the cellar's depths have found, And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls

About the streets are singing;
The boys are come to catch the owls

The wild mare in is bringing,
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box;
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play the noddy. Some youths will now a mumming go, Some others play at Rowland-bo, And twenty other game boys mo, Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore, in these merry days,
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays,

To make our mirth the fuller; And, while we thus inspired sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods and hills and every thing, Bear witness we are merry!

GEORGE WITHER.

Atalanta's Race.

THROUGH thick Arcadian woods a hunter went, Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day; But since his horn-tipped bow, but seldom bent, Now at the noon-tide naught had happed to slay, Within a vale he called his hounds away, Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling About the cliffs and through the beech-trees ring.

But when they ended, still awhile he stood, And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear, And all the day-long noises of the wood, And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished year His hounds' feet pattering as they drew anear, And heavy breathing from their heads low hung, To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung.

Then smiling did he turn to leave the place, But with his first step some new fleeting thought

A shadow cast across his sunburnt face;

I think the golden net that April brought

So thitherward he turned, and on each side The folk were busy on the teeming land, And man and maid from the brown furrows cried, Or midst the newly blossomed vines did stand, And as the rustic weapon pressed the hand Thought of the nodding of the well-filled ear, Or how the knife the heavy bunch should shear.

Merry it was about him sung the birds, The spring flowers bloomed along the firm dry road,

The sleek-skinned mothers of the sharp-horned

herds

Now for the barefoot milking-maidens lowed;
While from the freshness of his blue abode,
Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget,
The broad sun blazed, nor scattered plagues as yet.

Through such fair things unto the gates he came,

And found them open, as though peace were there;

caught;

For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did he go
Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps and slow.

Yet howsoever slow he went, at last
The trees grew sparser, and the wood was done;
Whereon one farewell, backward look he cast,
Then, turning round to see what place was won,
With shaded eyes looked underneath the sun,
And o'er green meads and new-turned furrows
brown

Beheld the gleaming of King Schoneus' town.

He entered, and along the streets 'gan fare,
Which at the first of folk were wellnigh bare;
But pressing on, and going more hastily,
Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see.

Following the last of these, he still pressed on,
Until an open space he came unto,
Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost and won,
For feats of strength folk there were wont to do.
And now our hunter looked for something new,
Because the whole wide space was bare, and stilled
The high seats were, with eager people filled.

There with the others to a seat he gat, Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 'Neath which in fair array King Schoneus sat Upon his throne with councillors thereby; And underneath this well-wrought seat and high, He saw a golden image of the sun,

A silver image of the Fleet-foot One.

A brazen altar stood beneath their feet Whereon a thin flame flickered in the wind; Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet Made ready even now his horn to wind, By whom a huge man held a sword, intwined With yellow flowers; these stood a little space From off the altar, nigh the starting-place.

And there two runners did the sign abide
Foot set to foot,—a young man slim and fair,
Crisp-haired, well-knit, with firm limbs often
tried

In places where no man his strength may spare;
Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair
A golden circlet of renown he wore,
And in his hand an olive garland bore.

But on this day with whom shall he contend?

A maid stood by him like Diana clad

When in the woods she lists her bow to bend,
Too fair for one to look on and be glad,
Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had,
If he must still behold her from afar;
Too fair to let the world live free from war.

She seemed all earthly matters to forget; Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near, But her foe trembled as a man in fear, Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned.

Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang

Just as the setting sun made eventide.

Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang,
And swiftly were they running side by side;
But silent did the thronging folk abide
Until the turning-post was reached at last,
And round about it still abreast they passed.

But when the people saw how close they ran, When half-way to the starting-point they were, A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear;

And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel,

And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart 'gan steal.

But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around, And even then he felt her past him bound Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair.

There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, For no victorious joy her red lips smiled, Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep, Though some divine thought softened all her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place.

But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, One moment gazed upon her piteously, Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word

He knelt before the bearer of the sword;

Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place

Was silence now, and midst of it the maid
Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace,
And he to hers upturned his sad white face;
Nor did his eyes behold another sight
Ere on his soul there fell eternal night.

So was the pageant ended, and all folk Talking of this and that familiar thing In little groups from that sad concourse broke, For now the shrill bats were upon the wing, And soon dark night would slay the evening, And in dark gardens sang the nightingale Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale.