LITMIR.BIZ

      Of lonely Ariadne on the wharf

         At Naxos, when she saw the treacherous crew

      Far out at sea, and waved her crimson scarf

         And called false Theseus back again nor knew

      That Dionysos on an amber pard

      Was close behind her; memories of what Mæonia’s bard

      With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,

         Queen Helen lying in the ivory room,

      And at her side an amorous red-lipped boy

         Trimming with dainty hand his helmet’s plume,

      And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,

      As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

      Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword

         Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,

      And all those tales imperishably stored

         In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich

      Than any gaudy galleon of Spain

      Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

      For well I know they are not dead at all,

         The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy:

      They are asleep, and when they hear thee call

         Will wake and think ’t is very Thessaly,

      This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade

      The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

      If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird

         Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne

      Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard

         The horn of Atalanta faintly blown

      Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering

      Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets’ spring, —

      Ah! tiny sober-suited advocate

         That pleadest for the moon against the day!

      If thou didst make the shepherd seek his mate

         On that sweet questing, when Proserpina

      Forgot it was not Sicily and leant

      Across the mossy Sandford stile in ravished wonderment, —

      Light-winged and bright-eyed miracle of the wood!

         If ever thou didst soothe with melody

      One of that little clan, that brotherhood

         Which loved the morning-star of Tuscany

      More than the perfect sun of Raphael

      And is immortal, sing to me! for I too love thee well.

      Sing on! sing on! let the dull world grow young,

         Let elemental things take form again,

      And the old shapes of Beauty walk among

         The simple garths and open crofts, as when

      The son of Leto bare the willow rod,

      And the soft sheep and shaggy goats followed the boyish God.

      Sing on! sing on! and Bacchus will be here

         Astride upon his gorgeous Indian throne,

      And over whimpering tigers shake the spear

         With yellow ivy crowned and gummy cone,

      While at his side the wanton Bassarid

      Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid!

      Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin,

         And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth,

      Upon whose icy chariot we could win

         Cithæron in an hour ere the froth

      Has over-brimmed the wine-vat or the Faun

      Ceased from the treading! ay, before the flickering lamp of dawn

      Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest,

         And warned the bat to close its filmy vans,

      Some Mænad girl with vine-leaves on her breast

         Will filch their beech-nuts from the sleeping Pans

      So softly that the little nested thrush

      Will never wake, and then with shrilly laugh and leap will rush

      Down the green valley where the fallen dew

         Lies thick beneath the elm and count her store,

      Till the brown Satyrs in a jolly crew

         Trample the loosestrife down along the shore,

      And where their hornèd master sits in state

      Bring strawberries and bloomy plums upon a wicker crate!

      Sing on! and soon with passion-wearied face

         Through the cool leaves Apollo’s lad will come,

      The Tyrian prince his bristled boar will chase

         Adown the chestnut-copses all a-bloom,

      And ivory-limbed, grey-eyed, with look of pride,

      After yon velvet-coated deer the virgin maid will ride.

      Sing on! and I the dying boy will see

         Stain with his purple blood the waxen bell

      That overweighs the jacinth, and to me

         The wretched Cyprian her woe will tell,

      And I will kiss her mouth and streaming eyes,

      And lead her to the myrtle-hidden grove where Adon lies!

      Cry out aloud on Itys! memory

         That foster-brother of remorse and pain

      Drops poison in mine ear, – O to be free,

         To burn one’s old ships! and to launch again

      Into the white-plumed battle of the waves

      And fight old Proteus for the spoil of coral-flowered caves!

      O for Medea with her poppied spell!

         O for the secret of the Colchian shrine!

      O for one leaf of that pale asphodel

         Which binds the tired brows of Proserpine,

      And sheds such wondrous dews at eve that she

      Dreams of the fields of Enna, by the far Sicilian sea,

      Where oft the golden-girdled bee she chased

         From lily to lily on the level mead,

      Ere yet her sombre Lord had bid her taste

         The deadly fruit of that pomegranate seed,

      Ere the black steeds had harried her away

      Down to the faint and flowerless land, the sick and sunless day.

      O for one midnight and as paramour

         The Venus of the little Melian farm!

      O that some antique statue for one hour

         Might wake to passion, and that I could charm

      The Dawn at Florence from its dumb despair,

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