Hath since our day put by 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, Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats, Where are the mowers, who, as the tiny swell Yes, thou art gone! and round me too the night 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, And hope, once crush'd, less quick to spring again. And long the way appears, which seem'd so short And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air, Unbreachable the fort Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its wall; And strange and vain the earthly turmoil grows, But hush! the upland hath a sudden loss A troop of Oxford hunters going home, From hunting with the Berkshire hounds they come. Quick! let me fly, and cross Into yon farther field! 'Tis done; and see, Back'd by the sunset, which doth glorify The orange and pale violet evening-sky, Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree! the Tree! I take the omen! Eve lets down her veil, The west unflushes, the high stars grow bright, Yet, happy omen, hail! Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno-vale Under the flowery oleanders pale), Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our Tree is there! And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's train divine I trow, the mighty Mother doth not see) Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!— In the hot corn-field of the Phrygian king, Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes— And how a call celestial round him rang, And heavenward from the fountain-brink he sprang, And all the marvel of the golden skies. There thou art gone, and me thou leavest here Sole in these fields! yet will I not despair. Despair I will not, while I yet descry 'Neath the mild canopy of English air Our Gypsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? * "Daphnis, the ideal Sicilian shepherd of Greek pastoral poetry, was said to have followed into Phrygia his mistress Piplea, who had been carried off by robbers, and to have found her in the power of the King of Phrygia, Lityerses. Lityerses used to make strangers try a contest with him in reaping corn, and to put them to death if he overcame them. Hercules arrived in time to save Daphnis, took upon himself the reaping-contest with Lityerses, overcame him, and slew him. The Lityerses-song connected with this tradition was of the early plaintive strains of Greek popular poetry, and used to be sung by corn-reapers." one A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, This does not come with houses or with gold, "Tis not in the world's market bought and sold But the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound; Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields, Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time, Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tried thy throat It fail'd, and thou wast mute! Yet hadst thou alway visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay, Left human haunt, and on alone till night. Too rare, too rare, grow now thy visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. - Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar, Let in thy voice a whisper often come, To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou? I wander'd till I died. Roam on! the light we sought is shining still. Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill, Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side. "YE scatter'd birds that faintly sing, The reliques o' the vernal choir! A few short months, and, glad and gay, But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. "In Poverty's low barren vale, Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; |