y
preside over the feast of Death!'

The boy advanced, trembling; his once ruddy face was colourless and
haggard; his eyes were fixed with a look of rigid terror on the black
curtain; his features palpably expressed the presence within him of
some secret and overwhelming recollection which had crushed all his
other faculties and perceptions. Steadily, almost guiltily, averting
his face from his master's countenance, he stood by Vetranio's couch, a
frail and fallen being, a mournful spectacle of perverted docility and
degraded youth.

Still true, however, to the duties of his vocation, he ran his thin,
trembling fingers over the lyre, and mechanically preluded the
commencement of the ode. But during the silence of attention which now
prevailed, the confused noises from the people in the street penetrated
more distinctly into the banqueting-room; and at this moment, high
above them all--hoarse, raving, terrible, rose the voice of one man.

'Tell me not,' it cried, 'of perfumes wafted from the palace!--foul
vapours flow from it!--see, they sink, suffocating over me!--they bathe
sky and earth, and men who move around us, in fierce, green light!'

Then other voices of men and women, shrill and savage, broke forth in
interruption together:--'Peace, Davus! you awake the dead about you!'
'Hide in the darkness; you are plague-struck; your skin is shrivelled;
your gums are toothless!' 'When the palace is fired you shall be flung
into the flames to purify your rotten carcass!'

'Sing!' cried Vetranio furiously, observing the shudders that ran over
the boy's frame and held him speechless. 'Strike the lyre, as
Timotheus struck it before Alexander! Drown in melody the barking of
the curs who wait for our offal in the street!'

Feebly and interruptedly the terrified boy began; the wild continuous
noises of the moaning voices from without sounding their awful
accompaniment to the infidel philosophy of his song as he breathed it
forth in faint and faltering accents. It ran thus:--

TO GLYCO

Ah, Glyco! why in flow'rs array'd?
Those festive wreaths less quickly fade
Than briefly-blooming joy!
Those high-prized friends who share your mirth
Are counterfeits of brittle earth,
False coin'd in Death's alloy!

The bliss your notes could once inspire,
When lightly o'er the god-like lyre
Your nimble fingers pass'd,
Shall spring the same from others' skill--
When you're forgot, the