Chapter 4

Of the Faun's Journey to the Sea.

Seaward my forest way I'll take,And at a pool's lit quietude slakeMy thirst, and feel a dull flame creepLike the first flux of tidal sleepThrough all my limbs. Yet, when I sinkSleepward, start wide-eyed up to drinkThe sunned wood's wet deliciousness,Touch flowers, and feel the sun's caressAbout my locks, and wander on,Or pause to smile up at the sun,Guarding my eyes with glowing hand,Or, leaned against a beech-trunk, standWatching between the branches' rift,As they gently wave and liftTo the bland breeze softly blowing,The noiseless clouds serenely goingSlowly to the hid, low seaI can hear breathing slumberously.Till from the woodland I emerge,Greeted by a louder surge,And from the bushy cliff-top spyHow the hollow bay doth lieOne quiver and murmur under the sun,And how the lightsome wind-puffs runChasing each other crookedly,Over the idly heaving sea.

Of the Sea-Horses.

Next I will turn my eyes, perhaps,To where the languid waters lapseGlittering over a sunburned rockRound which the shrieking white gulls flock....Thus browsing in my solitude,I may remember I've a feudWith the Sea-Horses, once who draveMe from the sea-light of their cave.Enough! and, crashing down, I comeTo find them drowsing in their home....So creep I with a crooked stickTo where a blinding pool is quickWith green electric water-snakes.Sprawling across a rock which bakesI stir the molten till they boilAnd up my hawthorn kick and coil;Then scamper, rocketing, to the cave,Hurl the stick in. Hark! how they rave,And plunge up clattering, kicking, neighing,Till Triton on his horn 'gins braying,And each hasteneth to belabourWith hooves or tear with teeth his neighbour,And from the cavern's blueness rushInto the simmering beach's hush,To stand, with heaving flanks, agazeAt the hot stones and still sea's blaze:Then stampede, scattering high and wideA hail of stones and glittering tide.

Of the Faun in his Meditation.

I will walk the sunny wood,Deep and tranquil as my mood,And watch how the honeyed sunlight isHung in the great boughs of the trees,And the pattern the branchwork weavesUnder the panoply of leaves,And how high up two butterfliesPass, vaulting, out into the skies.Or, entering a silent glade,Draw a sharp breath and stand dismayedAt beauty which doth straight presentSuch a spasm of ravishmentSight is confused, and doth confessHer wreck in voiceless tenderness:Seeing the flower-decked cherry-trees—Unruffled ever by any breeze,Unburned by bright dawn's fiery chill—Standing celestially still....Or lay me down 'neath chestnut boughs,And drowse and dream and dream and drowse,Drunk with the greenness overhead,Until a blossom of sharp red,Shook from her high and scalding place,Splash with chill scent my upturned face.

Or lay me down 'neath chestnut boughs,And drowse and dream and dream and drowse,Drunk with the greenness overhead,Until a blossom of sharp red,Shook from her high and scalding place,Splash with chill scent my upturned face.

Of the Philosopher.

But, lo! amid the woodland greenWhat mantles of strange blue are seen?What sage is he who slowly leadsDisciples on and little heedsThe holiness of sylvan haunt,Where even the silver bird dare chantBut seldom? where the sunlight liesHere scalding gold, and yonder diesInto a humid, still, green gloom?Hath not he in the forum roomTo vent himself, that now with rudeRabble he scareth SolitudeFrom her ultimate hiding-place?Now steps he forward a slow pace,And 'gins his discourse. Hear him prate,O woods, to silence consecrate;Hear him, O flowers, whose golden eyesSpeak more than all Man's orat'ries!—

And his Oration.

Philosopher.Meanwhile, though nations in distressCower at a comet's lovelinessShaken across the midnight sky;Though the wind roars, and Victory,A virgin fierce, on vans of goldStoops through the cloud's white smother rolledOver the armies' shock and flowAcross the broad green hills below,Yet hovers and will not circle downTo cast t'ward one the leafy crown;Though men drive galleys' golden beaksTo isles beyond the sunset peaks,And cities on the sea beholdWhose walls are glass, whose gates are gold,Whose turrets, risen in an hour,Dazzle between the sun and shower,Whose sole inhabitants are kingsSix cubits high with gryphon's wingsAnd beard and mien more gloriousThan Midas or Assaracus;Though priests in many a hill-top faneLift anguished hands—and lift in vain—Toward the sun's shaft dancing throughThe bright roof's square of wind-swept blue;Though 'cross the stars nightly ariseThe silver fumes of sacrifice;Though a new Helen bring new scars,Pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars,Stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits spedLike a streaked flame toward the dead:Though all these be, yet grows not oldDelight of sunned and windy wold,Of soaking downs aglare, asteam,Of still tarns where the yellow gleamOf a far sunrise slowly breaks,Or sunset strews with golden flakesThe deeps which soon the stars will throng.For earth yet keeps her undersongOf comfort and of ultimate peace,That whoso seeks shall never ceaseTo hear at dawn or noon or night.Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright,Too thin, too bright, for those to hearWho listen with an eager ear,Or course about and seek to spy,Within an hour, eternity.First must the spirit cast asideThis world's and next his own poor prideAnd learn the universe to scanMore as a flower less as a man.Then shall he hear the lonely deadSing and the stars sing overhead,And every spray upon the heathAnd larks above and ants beneath;The stream shall take him in her arms;Blue skies shall rest him in their calms;The wind shall be a lovely friend,And every leaf and bough shall bendOver him with a lover's grace.The hills shall bare a perfect faceFull of a high solemnity;The heavenly clouds shall weep, and beContent as overhead they swimTo be high brothers unto him.No more shall he feel pitched and hurledUncomprehended into this worldFor every place shall be his place,And he shall recognize its face.At dawn he shall upon his path;No sword shall touch him, nor the wrathOf the ranked crowd of clamorous men.At even he shall home again,And lay him down to sleep at ease,One with the Night and the Night's peace.Ev'n Sorrow, to be escaped of none,But a more deep communionShall be to him, and Death at lastNo more dreaded than the Past,Whose shadow in the brain of earthInforms him now and gave him birth.

For earth yet keeps her undersongOf comfort and of ultimate peace,That whoso seeks shall never ceaseTo hear at dawn or noon or night.Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright,Too thin, too bright, for those to hearWho listen with an eager ear,Or course about and seek to spy,Within an hour, eternity.First must the spirit cast asideThis world's and next his own poor prideAnd learn the universe to scanMore as a flower less as a man.Then shall he hear the lonely deadSing and the stars sing overhead,And every spray upon the heathAnd larks above and ants beneath;The stream shall take him in her arms;Blue skies shall rest him in their calms;The wind shall be a lovely friend,And every leaf and bough shall bendOver him with a lover's grace.The hills shall bare a perfect faceFull of a high solemnity;The heavenly clouds shall weep, and beContent as overhead they swimTo be high brothers unto him.No more shall he feel pitched and hurledUncomprehended into this worldFor every place shall be his place,And he shall recognize its face.At dawn he shall upon his path;No sword shall touch him, nor the wrathOf the ranked crowd of clamorous men.At even he shall home again,And lay him down to sleep at ease,One with the Night and the Night's peace.Ev'n Sorrow, to be escaped of none,But a more deep communionShall be to him, and Death at lastNo more dreaded than the Past,Whose shadow in the brain of earthInforms him now and gave him birth.

The Faun's Anger.

Up, O Faun, up! is he a manSo dares affront the great god Pan?Creep I now close....(Has he not heardEver the lamb cry as the birdDescends upon its helpless headTo pluck its eyes out? Blank with dreadDid he ne'er press in stumbling hasteOver the wide moor's tossing waste?Or, stripped to plunge, did never eyeThe sunned pool smiling treacherously,Despair and terror in his heart?Hate on him!)See: he draws apartThat with himself he may communeThe while to a low murmuring tuneWrung from a golden-stringëd lyreThe young men chant. Hist! Draws he nigher?Now crouch I mid a thicket whereThe spicy hedge-rose warms the airWith giddy scent, and for an hourWoos with her open-bosomed flowerThe full gaze of her lord the sun,And through whose thorns the sunbeams runSpangling the cavern of the brakeWith chequered shade such as the snakeLoves to repose in, that the heatUpon his sullen coils may beat,Breeding within his ancient heartSuch malice that his tongue must dartFlickering in silence out and in,The while adown his withered skin,From horns above his murderous eyes,The cold surge shudders, ebbs, and dies.

Now crouch I mid a thicket whereThe spicy hedge-rose warms the airWith giddy scent, and for an hourWoos with her open-bosomed flowerThe full gaze of her lord the sun,And through whose thorns the sunbeams runSpangling the cavern of the brakeWith chequered shade such as the snakeLoves to repose in, that the heatUpon his sullen coils may beat,Breeding within his ancient heartSuch malice that his tongue must dartFlickering in silence out and in,The while adown his withered skin,From horns above his murderous eyes,The cold surge shudders, ebbs, and dies.

And of the Trick the Faun played, thereby symbolizing the Rule of Pan in Nature.

And now yon comes, with solemn headSunk upon breast, with laurel spreadAbout his thought-bewrinkled brows.All hail, philosopher! I rouseThee by a low and single hiss.He is frozen still. A sudden blissSeizes me, and a branch I shakeAs gently as an unseen snakeSwinging toward him.But he stands,Clasps and unclasps his gradual handsIn silence save for one long sighOf terror.And I draw more nigh.Beneath his glazèd eyes I swayThree leaves upon one stilly spray:He blenches.Ha! it was well done,That final hiss.I am alone:For with a harsh cry he has fledHideously stumbling, and is ledSpeechless away.The lyre, forgot,Lies in the grass....

XII

Of the Spring, Frequent Haunt of the Lonely Naiads.

I know a spotWhere, to the sound of water sighing,The Naiads, when the sun is lyingHeavy on mead and fronded tree,When birds are silent and the beeSwoons in the dewed heart of the rose,Sing hushedly.I will reposeUpon its banks and to the springAn answer make with hands that clingOver this lost lyre's murmurous chordsAnd with their voiced quiet mingle wordsSuch as my shrouded soul affordsWhen the warm blood within my veinsThrobs heavily, and the noon sun reigns,Who would heaven and earth uniteIn one blaze of arduous light,Till dark woods, fields, bronzed sky, and deep,In one maniac dull dream sleep.

XIII

THE NAIADS' MUSIC.

The Naiads.Come, ye sorrowful, and steepYour tired brows in a nectarous sleep:For our kisses lightlier runThan the traceries of the sunBy the lolling water castUp grey precipices vast,Lifting smooth and warm and steepOut of the palely shimmering deep.Come, ye sorrowful, and takeKisses that are but half awake:For here are eyes O softer farThan the blossom of the starUpon the mothy twilit waters,And here are mouths whose gentle laughtersAre but the echoes of the deepLaughing and murmuring in its sleep.Come, ye sorrowful, and seeThe raindrops flaming goldenlyOn the stream's eddies overheadAnd dragonflies with drops of redIn the crisp surface of each wingThreading slant rains that flash and sing,Or under the water-lily's cup,From darkling depths, roll slowly upThe bronze flanks of an ancient breamInto the hot sun's shattered beam,Or over a sunk tree's bubbled boleThe perch stream in a golden shoal:Come, ye sorrowful; our deepHolds dreams lovelier than sleep.But if ye sons of Sorrow comeOnly wishing to be numb:Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies,Our breasts are soft as silken roses,And our hands are tendererThan the breaths that scarce can stirThe sunlit eglantine that isMurmurous with hidden bees.Come, ye sorrowful, and steepYour tired brows in a nectarous sleep.Come, ye sorrowful, for hereNo voices sound but fond and clearOf mouths as lorn as is the roseThat under water doth disclose,Amid her crimson petals torn,A heart as golden as the morn;And here are tresses languorousAs the weeds wander over us,And brows as holy and as blandAs the honey-coloured sandLying sun-entranced belowThe lazy water's limpid flow:Come, ye sorrowful, and steepYour tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, and takeKisses that are but half awake:For here are eyes O softer farThan the blossom of the starUpon the mothy twilit waters,And here are mouths whose gentle laughtersAre but the echoes of the deepLaughing and murmuring in its sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, and seeThe raindrops flaming goldenlyOn the stream's eddies overheadAnd dragonflies with drops of redIn the crisp surface of each wingThreading slant rains that flash and sing,Or under the water-lily's cup,From darkling depths, roll slowly upThe bronze flanks of an ancient breamInto the hot sun's shattered beam,Or over a sunk tree's bubbled boleThe perch stream in a golden shoal:Come, ye sorrowful; our deepHolds dreams lovelier than sleep.

But if ye sons of Sorrow comeOnly wishing to be numb:Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies,Our breasts are soft as silken roses,And our hands are tendererThan the breaths that scarce can stirThe sunlit eglantine that isMurmurous with hidden bees.Come, ye sorrowful, and steepYour tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

Come, ye sorrowful, for hereNo voices sound but fond and clearOf mouths as lorn as is the roseThat under water doth disclose,Amid her crimson petals torn,A heart as golden as the morn;And here are tresses languorousAs the weeds wander over us,And brows as holy and as blandAs the honey-coloured sandLying sun-entranced belowThe lazy water's limpid flow:Come, ye sorrowful, and steepYour tired brows in a nectarous sleep.

The Faun prepares to reply.

Sweet water-voices! now must IUnto your sorrowings reply.But hark! or ever there can soundOn the lull air the first profoundFew murmurs of my lyre's grave strings,A voice uprises. Who now singsThe noon's and his own tristfulness?A slim youth—in a shepherd's dress,Yet without sheep—who careless liesUpon the hill. His shepherd guiseTokens, perhaps, a poet's heartWhich joys in wandering apartFrom the dinned ways where chariots roll,From the shrill sophist with his shoalOf gapers, from the angry mart,From the full eyes and empty heartOf babbling women, from the neatAridity of paven street,A heart that wandering, musing, singsThe joy, depth, pain of simple things:

MIDDAY IN ARCADIA.

The Youth.The earth is still; only the white sun climbsThrough the green silence of the branching limes,Whose linked flowers hanging from the still tree-topDistil their soundless syrup drop by drop,While 'twixt the starry bracket of their lipsThe black bee drowsing floats and drowsing sips.The flimsy leaves hang on the bright blue airCalm-suspended. Deep peace is everywhereFilled with the murmurous rumour of high noon.Earth seems with open eyes to sink and swoon.In the sky peace: where nothing movesSave the sun that smiles and loves.A quivering peace is on the grass.Through the noon gloam butterflies pass,White and hot blue, only to whereThey can float flat and dream on the soft air....The trees are asleep, beautiful, slumbrous trees!Stirred only by the passion of the breeze,That, like a warm wave welling over rocks,Loosens and lifts the mass of drowsing locks.Earth, too, under the profound grassSleeps and sleeps, and softly heaves her slumbrous mass.The earth sleeps. Sleeps the newly-buried clayOr doth divinity trouble it to live alway?No voice uplifts from under the rapt crust.The dust cries to the unregarding dust.Over the hill the stopped notes of twin reedsSpeak like drops from an old wound that bleeds:A yokel's pipe an ancient pastoral singsAbove the innumerable murmur of hid wings.I hear the cadence, sorrowful and sweet,The oldest burthen of the earth repeat:All love, all passion, all strife, all delightAre but the dreams that haunt earth's visioned night.In her eternal consciousness the stirOf Alexander is no more to herThan you or I: being all part of dreams,The shadowiest shadow of a thing that seems,The images the lone pipe-player sees,Sitting and playing to the lone, noon breeze.One note, one life!They sleep: soon we as these!

No voice uplifts from under the rapt crust.The dust cries to the unregarding dust.

Over the hill the stopped notes of twin reedsSpeak like drops from an old wound that bleeds:A yokel's pipe an ancient pastoral singsAbove the innumerable murmur of hid wings.I hear the cadence, sorrowful and sweet,The oldest burthen of the earth repeat:All love, all passion, all strife, all delightAre but the dreams that haunt earth's visioned night.In her eternal consciousness the stirOf Alexander is no more to herThan you or I: being all part of dreams,The shadowiest shadow of a thing that seems,The images the lone pipe-player sees,Sitting and playing to the lone, noon breeze.One note, one life!They sleep: soon we as these!

XIV

Of the Satyrs' Feast.

Now plunge I into deepest woods,Where everlastingly there broodsSuch quiet and glamour as must beBeneath the threshing upper sea.Here burns no sun, but tawny lightPervades the vistas still and brightOf mazy boles and fallen leaves....I press yet on. At length there cleavesThe twilit hush a pillared gleam.The leafed floor rises. 'Tis a beamOf sunlight fallen in a dellBeyond the mound. There will I dwell,Soothed by sunned quietude. For thereA carved rock spouts and moists the airWith gross-mouthed pour and rising spray....But hark! what festive cries are theyWhich greet me as I top the mound?Below, dispersed and sunk aroundThe green and golden of the glen,Lie satyrs; in a leafy den,Silenus, crowned with vines and roses,Drowses and starts, blinks, drinks, and dozes.Banqueting dishes strew the grass,Goblets of gold and peacock glass,Flagons, urns, many a brimming bowl,And horns from which the flushed fruits roll.High o'er the feast a fronded ashHangs full of sunlight, and the splashOf the spring's leap or gurgeing flowInto the rippled pool below,Where lilies rock, shakes up a brightEddy of golden tremulous lightOver the leaves. The Oread,In a hooded lynx pelt clad,Smiles where she lolls ... the while twin faunsWith stamping hooves and butting hornsJoin combat for a dripping cupShe bears.But now a shout goes upAt sight of me:

The Invitation.

Satyr."We feast, we feast;For, lo! the flaming sun hath ceasedTo climb the curve of arid sky,And his meridian holds on high,Narrowing with his scorching beamsThe chestnut's shade, exhausting streams,Stilling the woodland singer's note,Piercing the eyes, shrinking the throat,Saddening the heart of man and beast.Yet grieve not we but sprawl and feast.Leap down, O Faun, then, from thy rocks,Leap down to us. Bedew thy locksWith such cool spicy nards as dwellWithin this ribbed and rosy shell;Around thy scalded temples twineSprays of this fountain-wetted vine,And from this golden jorum sipNectarous liquor—ay, and lipSmooth nectarines, thy sunk teeth clenchIn melon dripping sherds, and quenchThy salty thirst anew in flowOf sparkled or dark wines that glowWith sober warmth and merriment,Until our gladdened voices blentAwake the vigour of our feet,And up we start the grass to beatWith fervent foot, drink, dance again,And, ever at the loud refrainClashing our cups, dance on and on,Till the noontide lull is gone."So join I them, and drink and sup,And fill again the great bowl up;And, drenched thus down, spin lusty talesOf topping bouts 'twixt men and whales;Of the East's Emperor who hathA pool of wine to be his bath;Of Hercules his thirst, and howHe did all Ethiopia plough,And plant with vines, his thirst to sate.We will discuss the Ideal State,Whose sky is covered by a vine,Whose hills are cheese, whose rivers wine,Whose trees bear loaves brown, crisp and sweet,Whose citizens do nought but eat,But eat and drink, drink, eat, and snore,And eat again, and wish no moreThan so to drink, snore, eat; who findIn this true liberty of mindAnd true equality, in thisFraternity, law, earthly bliss.So swill again and yet again,Till a fire flushes all the brainAnd, trolling lustily and long,Each hearty throat bursts into song.

So join I them, and drink and sup,And fill again the great bowl up;And, drenched thus down, spin lusty talesOf topping bouts 'twixt men and whales;Of the East's Emperor who hathA pool of wine to be his bath;Of Hercules his thirst, and howHe did all Ethiopia plough,And plant with vines, his thirst to sate.We will discuss the Ideal State,Whose sky is covered by a vine,Whose hills are cheese, whose rivers wine,Whose trees bear loaves brown, crisp and sweet,Whose citizens do nought but eat,But eat and drink, drink, eat, and snore,And eat again, and wish no moreThan so to drink, snore, eat; who findIn this true liberty of mindAnd true equality, in thisFraternity, law, earthly bliss.So swill again and yet again,Till a fire flushes all the brainAnd, trolling lustily and long,Each hearty throat bursts into song.

A DITHYRAMB TO DIONYSOS.

Faun and Satyrs.Avaunt, mild-eyed Melancholy!Welcome, Mirth and mænad Folly!See about the lifted bowl,Wrinkled on its bossy scroll,Ribald nymphs and satyrs jollyTussle with a prancing goat;While Silenus, kneeling, drollyProffers a dry bowl unto 't——Ay, and round the mazer's brimBoisterous Mermen shouting swim,And each burly arm lifts up,Wine that o'erbrims its conchëd cup;Wherefore pour a triple potion:If such can be dry in ocean,'Tis as Titans we must sup!Avaunt, brow and visage pious:None but Bacchus boys come nigh us!Raise the bowl and shout his name:Io, Bacchus! for a flameChafes in our blood, O Bromios!Fire no water e'er could quench,And its heat must scorify usIf with wine we do not drench.Wherefore overbrim the cup:This to Jove now drink I up,Who upon thy first of daysSnátched thee and cówed thy natal blaze,Even as 'tis now the merryStrength of this thy vintaged berry,That the scorching danger stays.To the vine now! let its goldenLeaves about our brows be folden.To the swarthy hand that trims it!To the grape! the sun that dims it!To the pipe that doth emboldenPurpled stamping feet to riotO'er the vatted winepress olden!To the cavern's depth, chill, quiet!Last to wine's own ruddy sprite,Wakes in rheumy eyes a light—Ay, and ripens youth to man;Wine which more works than wisdom can;Wine that welcomes hardy morrows;Wine that turns to song our sorrows;Wine the only magian!Deep now! every bowl enhancesThe world's beauty; see there dancesIn the sky the leaping sun!'Nay, can thine eye catch but one?''Six now spin.' 'A seventh advances,Flares and vomits, swerves and blazes,Now bursts and countlessly it prances,Pulsing to my frantic paces!''I flame,—gyrate!' 'I shoot out heat!''My tricked speech trips, and trip my feet!''The earth runs round and heav'n is wheeling!''I sway; I reel.' 'Earth's wrecked and reeling!''Dance on.' 'Earth's gone.' 'All's white and clear!''Ah! Ah! Behind the blaze I hearThe Oread's laughter pealing!'Avaunt, grief! Descend, O holyFierce Bacchic rapture, divine folly!

Avaunt, brow and visage pious:None but Bacchus boys come nigh us!Raise the bowl and shout his name:Io, Bacchus! for a flameChafes in our blood, O Bromios!Fire no water e'er could quench,And its heat must scorify usIf with wine we do not drench.Wherefore overbrim the cup:This to Jove now drink I up,Who upon thy first of daysSnátched thee and cówed thy natal blaze,Even as 'tis now the merryStrength of this thy vintaged berry,That the scorching danger stays.

To the vine now! let its goldenLeaves about our brows be folden.To the swarthy hand that trims it!To the grape! the sun that dims it!To the pipe that doth emboldenPurpled stamping feet to riotO'er the vatted winepress olden!To the cavern's depth, chill, quiet!Last to wine's own ruddy sprite,Wakes in rheumy eyes a light—Ay, and ripens youth to man;Wine which more works than wisdom can;Wine that welcomes hardy morrows;Wine that turns to song our sorrows;Wine the only magian!

Deep now! every bowl enhancesThe world's beauty; see there dancesIn the sky the leaping sun!'Nay, can thine eye catch but one?''Six now spin.' 'A seventh advances,Flares and vomits, swerves and blazes,Now bursts and countlessly it prances,Pulsing to my frantic paces!''I flame,—gyrate!' 'I shoot out heat!''My tricked speech trips, and trip my feet!''The earth runs round and heav'n is wheeling!''I sway; I reel.' 'Earth's wrecked and reeling!''Dance on.' 'Earth's gone.' 'All's white and clear!''Ah! Ah! Behind the blaze I hearThe Oread's laughter pealing!'

Avaunt, grief! Descend, O holyFierce Bacchic rapture, divine folly!

Of the Faun's Further Wanderings.

Forth from the forest wend I slowly,While in my ears yet rings the holyDithyramb. The noon is past,But the sun rages. There is castA dumbness yet o'er earth and sky.Down to the river then will I,Slowly about its depths to swim,While the stream fondles every limbAnd soothes its ache. Deep I will dip,And, blowing, raise my locks, that dripTill the slim Hyads troop to see,And revel, too, and play with me,Hanging my ears with humid weedOr mounting me as water steed.Then, musing I will on, and soStray to where a silver slowRiver circles through the meads,Wherein the mooching great ox feeds,And turns a slow eye round the sky,Wondering if he can ever die.And there, mayhap, 'twill come to passI'll hear a sweet voice in the grass,And yet shall mark no singer nigh,Till, gently peering, I espyA solemn, elfish child who sitsUnseen mid towering grass, and knitsAn endless, endless daisy chain,Crooning the while some soft refrainHer mother sings her when she closesHer twilit eyes.Little Girl.Three red, red, roses—One each for father and mother, and one,The reddest of all, for her baby son.None for wee Amoret? Oh, none! for sheSome day, when she grows up, a red rose will be!

Little Girl.Three red, red, roses—One each for father and mother, and one,The reddest of all, for her baby son.None for wee Amoret? Oh, none! for sheSome day, when she grows up, a red rose will be!

Of the Faun's Converse with a Small She-Child.

Then, crossed-legged mid the meadow-sweet,I will sink down, laugh low, and greetHer blue, inquiring, childish eyesWith mine, sharp, merry, brown, and wise,And tell her tales—of Jack who slewTen giants; or Mirabel who flewOn a white owl to find the PrinceAnd give to him the Golden QuinceWould change him from a roaring bullTo a youth blithe and beautiful;Or tales of the Goblin and the Sloth,Who watched the moon and swore an oathTo find out what she was: how theseExplored her mines and found her—cheese.Thus will I sit and both amuseUntil I rise and beg excuse:Off 'to El Raschid in Assyria'Or 'the Grand-Duchess of Illyria,'Or 'to ask the maiden moonWhy one only of her shoonShe left us last night in the sky,And not her silver self, and whyShe always climbs the self-same track?Lets no one ever see her back?'

Thus will I sit and both amuseUntil I rise and beg excuse:Off 'to El Raschid in Assyria'Or 'the Grand-Duchess of Illyria,'Or 'to ask the maiden moonWhy one only of her shoonShe left us last night in the sky,And not her silver self, and whyShe always climbs the self-same track?Lets no one ever see her back?'

XVI

But neither to the moon go IOr to the river gliding by,But to the woods, therein to moveAmong the quiet glades I love,Desiring nought but aye to seeThe beech, ash, oak, and chestnut tree....Till I a nymph meet who persuadesMe to the broadest of the glades,Around whose smooth and sunken spaceThe far woods lie. For in this place,Deserted but for a mid-groveOf maiden trees, bower of the dove,Pan plays, and should the sylvans chance,Nymphs, fauns, and sylvans, join in dance.

XVII

Of the Immortal Dance.

On either hand the slender treesBow to the caressing breeze,And shake their shocks of silver lightAgainst skies marbled greenish-white,Save where, within a rent of blue,The tilted slip of moon glints through,Glittering upon us as we danceWith a soft extravaganceOf limbs as blonde as autumn boughs,And gold locks floating from moony brows.While anguished Pan the pipes doth blowFond and tremulous and low,And anon the timbrel shakes.—It is his sudden heart that breaksFor springs before the world grew old,Rich vales, and hill-tops fiery cold!—He watches the scarce moving skies,The trees, the glittering revelries,The moon, the dancers lemon-clad:The world fantastical and sad.The high-flung timbrels pulse and knock;We follow in a dancing flock,Touching each other's finger-tips,While from between our parted lipsThe solemn melodies repeatThe rhythm of our shaken feet.Then faster! and the round we trace,Hair flowing from elated face,Eyes lit, breast bare, with lifted knees,And hands that toss as toss the trees....And slow again ... with cumulate motion,As the long draw and plunge of oceanBursting in a cloud of sprayUp a white, deserted bayOf the sun-circled green Bermooths,Whose blistering sands the cool foam soothes....Next the bewildering pipes may singSome simple melody of spring,Whose cadences remember yetSadly lost springs that we forget.To which as dances April rainOn a still pool where leans no stain,Save of the cloud's pure splendour spreadGloriously overhead,Our fast-flickering feet shall twinkle,And our golden anklets tinkle,While fair arms in aery sleevesShiver as the poplar's leaves.And all the while shall Pan sit byAnd play, and pause, perhaps, to sigh,Viewing the scarce-moving skies,The hushed and glittering revelries,The infant moon, the slender treesSilvering to the shivery breeze,The fair, lorn dancers lemon-clad:The world fantastical and sad.

The high-flung timbrels pulse and knock;We follow in a dancing flock,Touching each other's finger-tips,While from between our parted lipsThe solemn melodies repeatThe rhythm of our shaken feet.Then faster! and the round we trace,Hair flowing from elated face,Eyes lit, breast bare, with lifted knees,And hands that toss as toss the trees....And slow again ... with cumulate motion,As the long draw and plunge of oceanBursting in a cloud of sprayUp a white, deserted bayOf the sun-circled green Bermooths,Whose blistering sands the cool foam soothes....Next the bewildering pipes may singSome simple melody of spring,Whose cadences remember yetSadly lost springs that we forget.To which as dances April rainOn a still pool where leans no stain,Save of the cloud's pure splendour spreadGloriously overhead,Our fast-flickering feet shall twinkle,And our golden anklets tinkle,While fair arms in aery sleevesShiver as the poplar's leaves.

And all the while shall Pan sit byAnd play, and pause, perhaps, to sigh,Viewing the scarce-moving skies,The hushed and glittering revelries,The infant moon, the slender treesSilvering to the shivery breeze,The fair, lorn dancers lemon-clad:The world fantastical and sad.

XVIII

Thus may we dance the light awayOf yet one more unmemoried day.But, the dance ended, I will goBeyond the reach of pipes that blowA sadness thrilling through my veins....

The Faun's Sadness.

For now within my spirit reignsShadow: before whose brooding face,Silent, there trail on gliding paceA multitude of restless Fears,Obscure Griefs and obscurer Tears,Bewildered Sighs, waned Phantasies,And all disastrous Presences,Mutely prophetic of a WoeI know not yet, but I shall know.Such power Pan's grief hath to oppress,And Memory!—since now I guessOnly too well that there must comeTwilight, Calamity, and Doom.For once I saw beneath an oakA bard so aged it seemed he wokeThat moment from a sleep of yearsAnd in his voice were sleep and tears....Till, wide-eyed, he, raging, spake,Rocking as when woodlands shakeUnder the first urge of the wind,Whose roaring murk lightens behind.

Such power Pan's grief hath to oppress,And Memory!—since now I guessOnly too well that there must comeTwilight, Calamity, and Doom.

For once I saw beneath an oakA bard so aged it seemed he wokeThat moment from a sleep of yearsAnd in his voice were sleep and tears....Till, wide-eyed, he, raging, spake,Rocking as when woodlands shakeUnder the first urge of the wind,Whose roaring murk lightens behind.

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