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MYTHOLOGY.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

A STREAM with soft, melodious voice

Runs singing through a flowery mead;

And when our college days are past

There antique idyls we will read,

Until the mystic wave reveals

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Fair Naiads on its silver tide,

And mid the sweetly blooming flowers

The Nymphs in winsome frolic hide.

There, with a simple wild-flower wreath

Circling her brow, and filmy lace

Thrown o'er her Parian shoulders, flits

A Dryad to her trysting-place.

And in her sweet, dark, lustrous eyes

We see, as in a vistaed dream,

Touched by the wand of mystery,

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