But Thyrsis never more we swains shall see; See him come back, and cut a smoother reed, And blow a strain the world at last shall heed For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee! Alack, for Corydon no rival now! But when Sicilian shepherds lost a mate, Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; And make leap up with joy the beauteous head 80 O easy access to the hearer's grace She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd; And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! 100 Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be, hill! Who, if not I, for questing here hath power? I know what white, what purple fritillaries yields, And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; 110 I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?— But many a dingle on the loved hill-side, With thorns once studded, old, white blossom'd trees, Where thick the cowslips grew, and far High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, The coronals of that forgotten time; Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team, And only in the hidden brookside gleam Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door, Above the locks, above the boating throng, Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats, 120 Red loosestrife and blond meadow-sweet among And darting swallows and light water-gnats Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell pass? They all are gone, and thou art gone as well! 130 Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night In ever-nearing circle weaves her shade. I see her veil draw soft across the day, I feel her slowly chilling breath invade The cheek grown thin, the brown hair sprent with gray; I feel her finger light Laid pausefully upon life's headlong train:The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew, The heart less bounding at emotion new, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. And long the way appears, which seem'd so short To the less practised eye of sanguine youth; 140 Tops in life's morning-sun so bright and Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, And near and real the charm of thy repose, And night as welcome as a friend would fall. But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field!-'T is done; and see, Tree! 150 160 I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, about, The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, And in the scatter'd farms the lights come out. I cannot reach the signal-tree to-night, Yet, happy omen, hail! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arnovale The morningless and unawakening sleep Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!— Ah, vain! These English fields, this upland dim, These brambles pale with mist engar landed, That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not for him; To a boon southern country he is fled, And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's train divine (And purer or more subtle soul than thee, I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) Within a folding of the Apennine, Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!- In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth Sings his Sicilian fold, His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyesAnd how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, And all the marvel of the golden skies. 170 180 190 |