Cold and mute the river flows With our tears for Anterôs. 

  

       AN INVOCATION     

      I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again; More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst-      ing men, Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we could fulfil, Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill; Were such beloved forerunners one summer day restored, Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard. Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie; Where trees from distant forests, whose names were strange to thee, Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach to be, And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath made more fair, Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant hair. Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing looks To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern books, And wonder at the daring of poets later born, Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is to morn; And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater strength of soul, Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the goal. As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing halls; And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled heir Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast to share; So from Ægean laurels that hide thine ancient urn I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn. Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:      Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from me. My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer, haste; There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee taste. Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd, speak:      Two minds shall flow together, the English and the Greek. 

  

       ACADEMUS     

      Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile, When once beyond the grave. Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile Amongst the bright and brave; My summers lapse away beneath Their cool Athenian shade:      And I a string for myrtle-wreath, A whetstone unto blade; I cheer the games I cannot play; As stands a crippled squire To watch his master through the fray, Uplifted by 

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