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("Il semblait grelotter.") {XXXVI., December, 1837.} He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen. 'Twas a poor statue underneath a mass Of leafless branches, with a blackened back And a green foot—an isolated Faun In old deserted park, who, bending forward, Half-merged himself in the entangled boughs, Half in his marble settings. He was there, Pensive, and bound to earth; and, as all things Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten. Trees were around him, whipped by icy blasts— Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird, And, like himself, grown old in that same place. Through the dark network of their undergrowth, Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown. Starless and moonless, a rough winter's night Was letting down her lappets o'er the mist. This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood. Poor, helpless marble, how I've pitied it! Less often man—the harder of the two. So, then, without a word that might offend His ear deformed—for well the marble hears The voice of thought—I said to him: "You hail From the gay amorous age. O Faun, what saw you When you were happy? Were you of the Court? "Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speak To tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass. Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days, Have you not sometimes with that oblique eye Winked at the Farnese Hercules?—Alone, Have you, O Faun, considerately turned From side to side when counsel-seekers came, And now advised as shepherd, now as satyr?— Have you sometimes, upon this very bench, Seen, at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instilling Grace into Gondi?—Have you ever thrown That searching glance on Louis with Fontange, On Anne with Buckingham; and did they not Start, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forth From corner of the wood?—Was your advice As to the thyrsis or the ivy asked, When, in grand ballet of fantastic form, God Phoebus, or God Pan, and all his court, Turned the fair head of the proud Montespan, Calling her Amaryllis?—La Fontaine, Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he, Tears on his eyelids, to reveal to you The sorrows of his nymphs of Vaux?—What said Boileau to you—to you—O lettered Faun, Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, held That charming dialogue?—Say, have you seen Young beauties sporting on the sward?—Have you Been honored with a sight of Molière In dreamy mood?—Has he perchance, at eve, When here the thinker homeward went, has he, Who—seeing souls all naked—could not fear Your nudity, in his inquiring mind, Confronted you with Man?" Under the thickly-tangled branches, thus Did I speak to him; he no answer gave. I shook my head, and moved myself away; Then, from the copses, and from secret caves Hid in the wood, methought a ghostly voice Came forth and woke an echo in my souls As in the hollow of an amphora. "Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say, "What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken Fauns In peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know, Poet, that ever it is impious deemed, In desert spots where drowsy shades repose— Though love itself might prompt thee—to shake down The moss that hangs from ruined centuries, And, with the vain noise of throe ill-timed words, To mar the recollections of the dead?" Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mist I hurried, dreaming of the vanished days, And still behind me—hieroglyph obscure Of antique alphabet—the lonely Faun Held to his laughter, through the falling night. I went my way; but yet—in saddened spirit Pondering on all that had my vision crossed, Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time— Through all, at distance, would my fancy see, In the woods, statues; shadows in the past! WILLIAM YOUNG A LOVE FOR WINGED THINGS. {XXXVII., April 12, 1840.} My love flowed e'er for things with wings. When boy I sought for forest fowl, And caged them in rude rushes' mesh, And fed them with my breakfast roll; So that, though fragile were the door, They rarely fled, and even then Would flutter back at faintest call! Man-grown, I charm for men.

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