HEBE
Her lover—for one she had, of course—
Was Marco, acrobat, circus-star,
The lightest foot on a running horse,
The surest leap from a swinging bar;
And she,—so jealous he dared not touch
A woman's hand, and, truth to say,
He had no humor to tease her much
Till a girl in spangles crossed their way.
'T was at Marseilles, the final scene:
This pretty rider joined the ring,
Ma'am'selle Celeste or Victorine,
And captured him under Florina's wing.
They hid their meetings, but when, you see,
Doubt holds the candle, love will show,
And in love's division the one of three,
Whose share is lessened, needs must know.
One night, then, after the throng outpoured
From the show, and the lions my Lady's power
Had been made to feel, with lash that scored
And eye that cowed them, a snarling hour;—
(They were just in the mood for pleasantry
Of those holidays when saints were thrown
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