XI.
NYMPHS.
1
Beautiful Things of Old! why are ye gone for ever
Out of the earth? Oh! why?
Dryad and Oread, and ye, Nereids blue!
Whose presence woods and hills and sea-rocks knew—
Ye've pass'd from Faith's dim eye,
And, save by poet's lip, your names are honour'd never.
2
The sun on the calm sea sheddeth a golden glory,
The rippling waves break whitely,
The sands are level and the shingle bright,
The green cliffs wear the pomp of Heaven's light,
And sea-weeds idle lightly
Over the rocks; but ye appear not, Dreams of Story!
3
Nymphs of the Sea! Faith's heart hath fled from ye, hath fled;
Ye are her boasted scorn;
Save to the poet's soul, the sculptor's thought,
The painter's fancy, ye are now as nought:
Mute is old Triton's horn,
And with it half the voice of the Old World is dead.
4
Our creeds are not less vain; our sleeping life still dreams;
The present, like the past,
Passes in joy and sorrow, love and shame;
Truth dwells as deep; wisdom is yet a name;
Life still to death flies fast,
And the same shrouded light from the dark future gleams.
5
Spirits of vale and hill, of river and of ocean—
Ye thousand deities!
Over the earth be president again;
And dance upon the mountain and the main,
In view of mortal eyes:
Love us, and be beloved, with the Old Time's devotion!
