Thou my Cupid,--not the boy-god whom the Thespians did adore,
But the man, so large, so noble, truer god than Venus bore.
I thy Psyche;--yet what blackness in this thread of gold is wove!
Thou canst never, never lead me, proud, before the throne of Jove!
All the gods might toil to help thee through the longest summer
day;--
Still would watch the fatal Sisters, spinning in the twilight gray;
And their calm and silent faces, changeless looking through the
gloom,
From eternity, would answer, "Thou canst ne'er escape thy doom!"
Couldst thou clasp me, couldst thou claim me, 'neath the soft
Elysian skies,
Then what music and what odor through their azure depths would rise!
Roses all the Hours would scatter, every god would bring us joy,
So, in perfect loving blended, bliss would never know alloy!

O my heart! the vision changes; fades the soft celestial blue;
Dies away the rapturous music, thrilling all my pulses through!
Lone I sit within my chamber; storms are beating 'gainst the pane,
And my tears are falling faster than the chill December rain;--
Yet, though I am doomed to linger, joyless, on this earthly shore,
Thou art Cupid!--I am Psyche!--we are wedded evermore!




DR. WICHERN AND HIS PUPILS.


"Would you like to spend a day at Horn and visit the _Rauhe Haus?_"