But stirred and aye rekindled it, the more
That he to quench the ill suspicion wrought,
Like the incautious bird, by fowler's lore,

Hampered in net or lime; which, in the thought To free its tangled pinions and to soar,

By struggling is but more securely caught. Orlando passes thither, where a mountain O'erhangs in guise of arch the crystal fountain.

Here from his horse the sorrowing county lit,

And at the entrance of the grot surveyed
A cloud of words, which seemed but newly writ,
And which the young Medoro's hand had made.
On the great pleasure he had known in it,

This sentence he in verses had arrayed;
Which to his tongue, I deem, might make pretence
To polished phrase; and such in ours the sense:

"Gay plants, green herbage, rill of limpid vein,

And, grateful with cool shade, thou gloomy cave, Where oft, by many wooed with fruitless pain, Beauteous Angelica, the child of grave King Galaphron, within my arms has lain; For the convenient harborage you gave, I, poor Medoro, can but in my lays, As recompense, forever sing your praise.

"And any loving lord devoutly pray,

Damsel and cavalier, and every one,
Whom choice or fortune hither shall convey,
Stranger or native, to this crystal run,
Shade, caverned rock, and grass, and plants, to say,
'Benignant be to you the fostering sun

And moon, and may the choir of nymphs provide,
That never swain his flock may hither guide.""

In Arabic was writ the blessing said,

Known to Orlando like the Latin tongue, Who, versed in many languages, best read

Was in this speech; which oftentimes from wrong And injury and shame had saved his head, What time he roved the Saracens among. But let him boast not of its former boot, O'erbalanced by the present bitter fruit.

Three times, and four, and six, the lines impressed Upon the stone that wretch perused, in vain Seeking another sense than was expressed,

And ever saw the thing more clear and plain; And all the while, within his troubled breast,

He felt an icy hand his heart-core strain. With mind and eyes close fastened on the block, At length he stood, not differing from the rock.

Then well-nigh lost all feeling; so a prey

Wholly was he to that o'ermastering woe. This is a pang, believe the experienced say Of him who speaks, which does all griefs outgo. His pride had from his forehead passed away,

His chin had fallen upon his breast below; Nor found he, so grief-barred each natural vent, Moisture for tears, or utterance for lament.

Stifled within, the impetuous sorrow stays,
Which would too quickly issue; so to abide
Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase,

Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is wide;
What time, when one turns up the inverted base,
Toward the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide,
And in the strait encounters such a stop,
It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop.

He somewhat to himself returned, and thought How possibly the thing might be untrue: That some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought To think) his lady would with shame pursue; Or with such weight of jealousy had wrought

To whelm his reason, as should him undo; And that he, whosoe'er the thing had planned, Had counterfeited passing well her hand.

With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, And manned some deal his spirits and awoke; Then prest the faithful Brigliadoro's seat,

As on the sun's retreat his sister broke. Not far the warrior had pursued his beat,

Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke; Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, And thitherward in quest of lodging hied.

Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador

To a discreet attendant; one undrest

His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore,
And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest.
This was the homestead where the young Medore
Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest.
Orlando here, with other food unfed,

Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed.

Little availed the count his self-deceit;

For there was one who spake of it unsought: The shepherd-swain, who to allay the heat

With which he saw his guest so troubled, thought The tale which he was wonted to repeat –

Of the two lovers - to each listener taught;

A history which many loved to hear,
He now, without reserve, 'gan tell the peer.

"How at Angelica's persuasive prayer,

He to his farm had carried young Medore, Grievously wounded with an arrow; where In little space she healed the angry sore. But while she exercised this pious care,

Love in her heart the lady wounded more,
And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire,
She burnt all over, restless with desire;

"Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born,
Who ruled in the East, nor of her heritage,
Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn
To be the consort of a poor foot-page."
His story done, to them in proof was borne
The gem, which, in reward for harborage,
To her extended in that kind abode,
Angelica, at parting, had bestowed.

In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed
That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay
Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed,
Whose twilight goes before approaching day.
In haste Orlando takes his arms and steed,
And to the deepest greenwood wends his way.
And when assured that he is there alone,
Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan.

Never from tears, never from sorrowing,

He paused; nor found he peace by night or day;
He fled from town, in forest harboring,

And in the open air on hard ear lay.
He marvelled at himself, how such a spring
Of water from his eyes could stream away,
And breath was for so many sobs supplied;
And thus oft-times, amid his mourning, cried:-

"I am not- am not what I seem to sight:

What Roland was, is dead and under ground, Slain by that most ungrateful lady's spite,

Whose faithlessness inflicted such a wound. Divided from the flesh, I am his sprite,

Which in this hell, tormented, walks its round, To be, but in its shadow left above,

A warning to all such as trust in love."

All night about the forest roved the count,
And, at the break of daily light, was brought
By his unhappy fortune to the fount,

Where his inscription young Medoro wrought.
To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount
Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught
But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite;
Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion bright,

Cleft through the writing; and the solid block,
Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped.
Woe worth each sapling and that caverned rock
Where Medore and Angelica were read!
So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock

Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed.
And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure,
From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure.

So fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew,
That all obscured remained the warrior's sprite,
Nor, for forgetfulness, his sword he drew,

Or wondrous deeds, I trow, had wrought the knight;
But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew,
Was needed by Orlando's peerless might.
He of his prowess gave high proofs and full,
Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull.

ARISTOPHANES.

ARISTOPHANES, the most famous of the Greek comic dramatists -the only one, indeed, of whose works more than fragments are extant was born, probably at Athens, about 450 B. C., and died there about 380 B. C. Of his early life little has been recorded except that he seems to have inherited a competent estate, and that he began writing for the stage while quite young. His earliest work, "The Revellers," not now extant, is said to have been produced when the author was about seventeen, and received the second prize. His career as a dramatist lasted some forty years, during which he produced between forty and fifty comedies, of which eleven still exist in a condition tolerably perfect. All of these have been translated into English, by different hands and with varying degrees of success.

The comic dramatists of Athens exercised a function in some manner equivalent to that of the popular journalists of our day. Their purpose at its best, as of Aristophanes, was to hit at the scholastic, social, and political foibles of their time. Any head that offered itself was thought a fair mark. The philosophy, theology, and politics of the time afforded ready marks for the humor and satire of Aristophanes. His satire sometimes degenerates to buffoonery, and not unfrequently there is a vein of coarseness running through it. Yet when we compare him with the English comic dramatists not to say of the period of the Restoration, but with those of our own day- we can hardly characterize his comedies as grossly indecent. Scattered through them and put mainly into the mouths of the chorus are bits of lyrics which remind us, and at no very wide interval, of the best things of the kind to be found in Shakespeare. Four of the comedies of Aristophanes may be selected as affording the fairest idea of their varied character. These are "The Birds," "The Clouds," "The Frogs," and "The Knights."

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THE CLOUD CHORUS.

(From "The Clouds": Andrew Lang's Translation.)

SOCRATES SPEAKS.

HITHER, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves

here;

Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,