t weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more;"
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

MOLY.

"Moly" (mo'ly), by Edith M. Thomas (1850-), in the best possible
presentation of the value of integrity. This poem ranks with "Sir
Galahad," if not above it. It is a stroke of genius, and every American
ought to be proud of it. Every time my boys read "Odysseus" or the
story of Ulysses with me we read or learn "Moly." The plant moly grows
in the United States as well as in Europe.

Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,
If thou touch at Circe's isle,--
Hermes' moly, growing solely
To undo enchanter's wile!
When she proffers thee her chalice,--
Wine and spices mixed with malice,--
When she smites thee with her staff
To transform thee, do thou laugh!
Safe thou art if thou but bear
The least leaf of moly rare.
Close it grows beside her portal,
Springing from a stock immortal,
Yes! and often has the Witch
Sought to tear it from its niche;
But to thwart her cruel will
The wise God renews it still.
Though it grows in soil perverse,
Heaven hath been its jealous nurse,
And a flower of snowy mark
Springs from root and sheathing dark;
Kingly safeguard, only herb
That can brutish passion curb!
Some do think its name should be
Shield-Heart, White Integrity.
Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,
If thou touch at Circe's isle,--
Hermes' moly, growing solely
To undo enchanter's wile!

EDITH M. THOMAS.

CUPID DROWNED.

"Cupid Drowned" (1784-1859), "Cupid Stung" (1779-1852), and "Cupid and
My Campasbe" (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs.
Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers' College, in her "Foundation
Studies in Literature." Children are always delighted with them.

T'other day as I was twining
Roses, for a crown to dine in,
What, of all things, 'mid the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor, Love, himself!
By the wings I picked him up
Like a bee, and in a cup
Of my wine I plunged and sank him,
Then what d'ye think I did?--I drank him.
Faith, I thought him dead. N