Salva Nos Mediæval Bæbes.

John William Waterhouse Apollo and Daphne 1908 . Oil on canvas So ran the god and girl, one swift in hope, The other in terror, but he run more swiftly, Born on the wings of love, gave her no rest, Shadowed her shoulder, breathed on her streaming hair. Her strength was gone, worn out by the long effort Of the long flight; she was deathly pale, and seeing The river of her father, cried 'O help me, If there is any power in the rivers, Change and destroy the body which has given Too much delight!' And hardlt had she finished, When her limbs grew numb and heavy, her soft breasts Were closed with delicate bark, her hair was leaves, Her arms were branches, and her speedy feet Rooted and held, and her head became a tree top, Everything gone except her grace, her shining. Apollo loved her still. He placed his hand Where he had hoped and felt the heart still beating Under the bark; and he embraced the branches As if they still were limbs, and kissed the wood, And the wood shrank from his kisses, and the god Exclaimed: 'Since you can never be my bride, My tree at least you shall be! Let the laurel Adorn, henceforth, my hair, my lyre, my quiver: Let Roman victors, in the long procession, Wear laurel wreaths for tryumph and ovation. Beside Augustus' portals let the laurel Guard and watch over the oak, and as my head Is always youthful, let the laurels always Be green and shining!' He said no more. The laurel, Stirring, seemed to consent, to be saying Yes.