IN THE MUSEUM.

'Twas almost dusk; the galleries Lay silent and deserted Where happy knots of twos and threes Had wondered, talked, and flirted; Where, armed with buns and catalogues, The country-bred relations Had criticised, appraised, despised The art of many nations. No more the rigid censor viewed With hearty disapproval Athenian statues in the nude, Demanding their removal; No more the cultured connoisseur, Whom nothing new amazes, The very old designs extolled In very modern phrases. Yet two remained; a youth and maid Still lingered in the section Where Egypt's treasures lie displayed For popular inspection; They talked in whispers, and although The subject dear to some is, They did not seem to take as theme The obelisks and mummies. An Art more ancient far, one thinks, Was that they talked of lightly, Compared with which the hoary Sphinx Seems juvenile and sprightly; Young as the very latest tale, Old as the oldest stories, It kept them there, this happy pair, That Art—the ars amoris! The mummies round them seemed to smile, Ah, long ago, one fancies, Those withered faces by the Nile Had known their own romances. The old-world gods have passed away, Osiris lies forsaken, But Love alone retains his throne Unquestioned and unshaken!