 | Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems |  |
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THE SHEPHERD OF THE THAMES.
I
Thou hast gone back to Arcady once more,False Shepherd, and hast left me here alone,
Here where the soul of London is one moan,
Here where life breaks upon a dusky shore;
Ah! was it wisely done to leave me thus,
For is it not mine the magic crook that makes
The iron cloud pearly and luminous?
For have I not the charmèd voice that wakes
The black-cap swinging in the osier-brakes,
That stirs her heart until it thrills and sings?
Ah! without me, light wanderer, canst thou find
The melting briar that breathes upon the wind,
Or where the shy white orchis waves her wings?
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II
Ah! that dark wood above the sparkling Thames,Where through the honeysuckle pale and sweet
We saw the silent river at our feet;
And pushing downward through the springing stems,
Descended to the twilight cumfrey-beds!
Dream not that thou canst find that wood again.
Ah! what a glory streamed above our heads!
Surely for thee no mellowing sunset sheds
Its radiance through the soft and flashing rain?
Thou shouldst have waited by the lock for me,
Or where the streaming roots of crows-foot shine,
Have shipped thine oars and laid thy boat by mine,
Nor thus have gone alone to Arcady.
III
Yet if thou must, push on, and let me knowWhat foxgloves with imperial foreheads nod
Down the steep coppice, row by stately row;
And where the mullein lifts her amber rod.
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Whence many a time we plunged above the weir,—
Cleaving the limpid pool with sinewy flank,
Till the wrecked water-lily's chalice sank
Swamped by the eddying flood in deluge drear?
Ah me, push on, and bathe there in the sun,
And listen to the clacking of the mill,
And dream that we are lithe young shepherds still,
Nor all our pastoral hour of pleasure done.
IV
And surely in that cool and fresh arcadeBy willows framed above the shelving bank,
Between the river and the hemlocks rank,
Thou'lt find the hard prints that our feet once made,
Our racing feet, along the dewy grass,
What time shy Oreads of the woodlands fled,
Yet paused to watch the white-limbed youngsters pass
Who never more shall skim the turf, alas!
With pliant feet, and breathless faces red,
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Nor lie, deep slumbering, through the noontide heat,
Nor in a nightly ecstasy repeat
Their faltering songs beneath the moonlit eaves.
V
We shall not taste our showery spring again,Yet cheerful memory makes it doubly dear;
The leaves that had no scent when plucked, are sere,
But smell like roses freshened with the rain.
Perchance if we went back once more, and sought
That secret hill, that visionary stream,
Which gleam so brightly in the glass of thought,
They might not bring us all the charm they brought,
They might undo the magic of the dream.
We have grown wise and cold with worldly lore,
Our weary eyes have learned to dread the sun,
Ah, tell me, tell me, was it sagely done
Thus to go back to Arcady once more?
| Firdausi in Exile and Other Poems | |