THE PARTHENON.

THOU sad, cold ruin, which time's gnawing tooth

Nor age's heavy hand could break nor bend,

From thy pure curves which to our eyes still send

Wonder and that delight which comes from truth;

What though around thy walls no ivy's growth

Unto thy sad decay a screen can lend;

How could a veil thy beauty pure commend?

Ah, no! The ivy's twine could bring but ruth,

That being fair in its wild loveliness,

It should enwrap the fairer beauty still

Of everlasting laws, which satisfy

The chainless mind, not bound to beauty less

For being chainless, save to that high will

That draws us unto beauty till we die.

B. W. W.