Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!- And now in happier air, Wandering with the great Mother's train divine Thou hearest the immortal chants of old!- In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian king, Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing; His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded eyes— 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 Our Gipsy-Scholar haunts, outliving thee! Fields where soft sheep from cages pull the hay, Woods with anemones in flower till May, Know him a wanderer still; then why not me? A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, Shy to illumine; and I seek it too. This does not come with houses or with gold, With place, with honour, and a flattering crew; 'Tis not in the world's market bought and soldBut the smooth-slipping weeks Drop by, and leave its seeker still untired; He wends unfollow'd, he must house alone; 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, What though the music of thy rustic flute Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat It fail'd, and thou wast mute! Yet hadst thou always 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 my 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. WORLDLY PLACE EVEN in a palace, life may be led well! And drudge under some foolish master's ken I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here! SIDNEY DOBELL [1824-1874] ENGLAND TO AMERICA NOR force nor fraud shall sunder us! O ye Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI [1828-1882] THE BLESSED DAMOZEL THE blessed damozel leaned out She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, Her hair that lay along her back Her seemed she scarce had been a day The wonder was not yet quite gone (To one, it is ten years of years. Surely she leaned o'er me-her hair It was the rampart of God's house So high, that looking downward thence It lies in Heaven, across the flood Beneath, the tides of day and night Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves Their heart-remembered names; And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames. And still she bowed herself and stooped Until her bosom must have made The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm. From the fixed place of Heaven she saw Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the world. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres. The sun was gone now; the curled moon Fluttering far down the gulf; and now (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song, Strove not her accents there, Fain to be hearkened? When those bells Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair?) |