Then I remember'd one myself had made What time I watch'd the swallow winging south From mine own land, part made long since, and part Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. 'O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 'O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South But in the North long since my nest is made. "O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 'O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' I ceased and all the ladies, each at each, Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, Stared with great eyes, and laugh'd with alien lips, Rang false but smiling Not for thee,' she said, 'O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid, Grate her harsh kindred in the grass: and this We hold them slight: they mind us of the time Poor soul! I had a maid of honour once; She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, A rogue of canzonets and serenades. I loved her. Peace be with her! she is dead. So they blaspheme the muse! but great is song Of spirit than to junketing and love. Love is it? Would this same mock-love, and this Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered Know you no song, the true growth of your soil, She spoke and turn'd her sumptuous head with eyes Of shining expectation fixt on mine. Then while I dragg'd my brains for such a song, Cyril, with whom the bell-mouth'd flask had wrought, Or master'd by the sense of sport, began To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences I frowning; Psyche flush'd and wann'd and shook; The lilylike Melissa droop'd her brows; Forbear' the Princess cried; Forbear, Sir ' I; And heated thro' and thro' with wrath and love, I smote him on the breast; he started up; Melissa clamour'd Flee the death; 'To horse' Said Ida; home! to horse!' and fled, as flies A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, When some one batters at the dovecote-doors, Disorderly the women. Alone I stood With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, I heard them passing from me: hoof by hoof, And every Clang'd on the bridge; and then another shriek, |