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Updated: May 7, 2025
Go and shout it even to yon portal: "Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal, For his steel hath pierced his father's breast." Go thou knowest now what on Lethe's strand Made me a prisoner stand. Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land! BRUTUS. Father, stay!
Thy language ne'er was wont To be mysterious or of hidden meaning; The spirit of gray hairs 'tis speaks in thee; Thou sayest I ne'er shall taste of Lethe's draught? JUNO. I said so, yes! But wherefore ridicule Gray hairs? 'Tis true that they, unlike fair tresses, Have ne'er been able to ensnare a god! SEMELE. Pardon poor thoughtless me! What cause have I To ridicule gray hairs?
She left the room. Forget! The Colonel was not likely to forget about those races! He was in deep misery of mind. "Miss 'Lethe?" he said timidly. "Yes, Colonel," said the charming lady, turning toward him. "Miss 'Lethe, have you the remotest idea of the agony I'm suffering?" "Why, Colonel, what's the matter? Aren't you well?" Miss 'Lethe's keen anxiety was instantaneous.
Alas! night never gives again What once it seizes as its prey! Till over Lethe's sullen swell, Aurora's rosy hues shall glow; And arching through the midmost hell Shine forth the lovely Iris-bow! And is there naught of her; no token No pledge from that beloved hand? To tell how love remains unbroken, How far soever be the land? Has love no link, no lightest thread, The mother to the child to bind?
The natural history of the evolution of opinion upon matters which, for want of a more embracing and satisfactory word, we must be content to call "religious," follows a uniform course in the minds of all men, except those "duller than the fat weed that roots itself at ease on Lethe's wharf," who never get beyond the primary stage. This course is separable into three periods.
No fastidious delicacy spoils their sports of fancy: though ten times told, the tale to them never can be tedious; though dull "as the fat weed that grows on Lethe's bank," the jest for them has all the poignancy of satire: on the very offals, the garbage of wit, they can feed and batten.
She neither wept nor moaned, but closed the eyes with a long, long kiss, and drawing a sheet over the marble features, turned, with a slow, unfaltering step, away. "For now that Hope's last ray is gone, Sure Lethe's dream would bless: In grief to think of bliss tha'ts flown, Adds pangs to wretchedness." A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening.
The moon to love her silver-horns is said, But makes a sorry show; She likes them on her husband's head, She's right to have it so In truth, when I have crossed dark Lethe's river, The man upon the right I'll love forever, For 'twas he first that wrote for me. For all the world the left man wrote, full clearly, And so we all should love him dearly; Come, left man! I must needs kiss thee!
Then, again, Paris is peculiarly fitted for curing these nameless maladies 'tis the modern Thebais, deserted because 'tis crowded silent because 'tis noisy; there, every man can pitch his tent and nurse his favorite sorrows without being disturbed by intruders. Solitude is the worst of companions when you wish to drown the past in Lethe's soothing stream.
At the other side of the room was the bell-button. His finger was extended and about to touch it when he stopped to think. "No! Great heavens!" said he. "That makes my third, already, and I'm as dry as the desert of Sahara." He sat down again, an air of martyrdom upon his face. "Ah, well, Miss 'Lethe's worth it. I say, Frank, anything new in the extra?"
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