第8章

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 yieldWhich Grecian meadows know not, many a rose Which all day long in vales AEolian A lad might seek in vain for over-grows Our hedges like a wanton courtesan Unthrifty of its beauty; lilies too Ilissos never mirrored star our streams, and cockles blueDot the green wheat which, though they are the signs For swallows going south, would never spread Their azure tents 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 elegySleeps in the reeds that fringe our winding Thames Which to awake were sweeter ravishment Than ever Syrinx wept for; diadems Of brown bee-studded orchids which were meant For Cytheraea's brows are hidden here Unknown to Cytheraea, and by yonder pasturing steerThere 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 goldAs 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 burden of its sunsIs 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 SalmacisWho is not boy nor girl and yet is both, Fed by two fires and unsatisfied Through their excess, each passion being loth 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 false Theseus back again nor knew That Dionysos on an amber pard Was close behind her; memories of what Maeonia's bardWith 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 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 '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 mooned wings of Ashtaroth, Upon whose icy chariot we could win Cithaeron 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 dawnHas scared the hooting owlet to its nest, And warned the bat to close its filmy vans, Some Maenad 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 rushDown 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 horned 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!