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,— p. 71Ah! 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,— p. 71 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, p. 72While at his side the wanton Bassarid Will throw the lion by the mane and catch the mountain kid! p. 72 Sing on! and I will wear the leopard skin, And steal the moonèd wings of Ashtaroth, Upon whose icy chariot we could win Cithæron 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 dawn Has scared the hooting owlet to its nest, And warned the bat to close its filmy vans, Some Mænad 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 rush Down the green valley where the fallen dew Lies
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