LITMIR.BIZ

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Tell me thy tale thou hapless chronicler

       Of thine own tragedies! do not contemn

       These unfamiliar haunts, this English field,

       For many a lovely coronal our northern isle can yield,

       Which Grecian meadows know not, many a rose,

       Which all day long in vales Aeolian

       A lad might seek in vain for, overgrows

       Our hedges like a wanton courtesan

       Unthrifty of her beauty, lilies too

       Ilissus never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blue

       Dot the green wheat which, though they are the signs

       For swallows going south, would never spread

       Their azure tints between the Attic vines;

       Even that little weed of ragged red,

       Which bids the robin pipe, in Arcady

       Would be a trespasser, and many an unsung elegy.

       Sleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames

       Which to awake were sweeter ravishment

       Than ever Syrinx wept for, diadems

       Of brown be-studded orchids which were meant

       For Cytheraea’s brows are hidden here

       Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steer

       There is a tiny yellow daffodil,

       The butterfly can see it from afar,

       Although one summer evening’s dew could fill

       Its little cup twice over ere the star

       Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold

       And be no prodigal, each leaf is flecked with spotted gold

       As if Jove’s gorgeous leman Danae

       Hot from his gilded arms had stooped to kiss

       The trembling petals, or young Mercury

       Low-flying to the dusky ford of Dis

       Had with one feather of his pinions

       Just brushed them! — the slight stem which bears the burdens of its suns

       Is hardly thicker than the gossamer,

       Or poor Arachne’s silver tapestry, —

       Men say it bloomed upon the sepulchre

       Of One I sometime worshipped, but to me

       It seems to bring diviner memories

       Of faun-loved Heliconian glades and blue nymph-haunted seas,

       Of an untrodden vale at Tempe where

       On the clear river’s marge Narcissus lies,

       The tangle of the forest in his hair,

       The silence of the woodland in his eyes,

       Wooing that drifting imagery which is

       No sooner kissed than broken, memories of Salmacis.

       Who is not boy or girl and yet is both,

       Fed by two fires and unsatisfied

       Through their excess, each passion being loath

       For love’s own sake to leave the other’s side,

       Yet killing love by staying, memories

       Of Oreads peeping through the leaves of silent moonlit trees.

       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 the false Theseus back again nor knew

       That Dionysos on an amber pard

       Was close behind her: memories of what Maeonia’s bard

       With sightless eyes beheld, the wall of Troy,

       Queen Helen lying in the carven 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 winged 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 ‘tis 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 poet’s 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 mooned wings of Ashtaroth,

       Upon whose icy chariot we could win

       Cithaeron in an hour e’er the froth

       Has overbrimmed 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,

      

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