1
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
2
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
3
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
4
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
5
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
6
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
7
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
8
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
9
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
10
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
1
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
2
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
3
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
4
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
5
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
6
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
7
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
8
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
9
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
10
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
1
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
2
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
3
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
4
For ever piping songs for ever new;
5
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
6
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
7
For ever panting, and for ever young;
8
All breathing human passion far above,
9
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
10
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
1
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
2
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
3
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
4
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
5
What little town by river or sea shore,
6
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
7
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
8
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
9
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
10
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
1
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
2
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
3
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
4
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
5
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
6
When old age shall this generation waste,
7
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
8
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
9
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"—that is all
|
