The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
—No more—no more—no more.
The hour of dream is o'er;
And troubles of the world bloom out anew;
But youth—and sunny day—
And beauty—where are they?—
The earth has lost its green; the sky its blue.
The hour of dream is o'er;
And troubles of the world bloom out anew;
But youth—and sunny day—
And beauty—where are they?—
The earth has lost its green; the sky its blue.
No more with pastoral pipe
Shall I, when the year is ripe,
(Falling in golden showers, and odorous drops
Red as the ruby's light)
Solace the pale twilight:—
Alas! the melancholy music stops.
Shall I, when the year is ripe,
(Falling in golden showers, and odorous drops
Red as the ruby's light)
Solace the pale twilight:—
Alas! the melancholy music stops.
178
In vain the reed is blown:
No sorrows save her own,
The watery Syrinx will allow to rise;
But,—as tho' Pan still woo'd,
And she again (pursued)
Fled o'er the amorous shallows,—so she sighs.
No sorrows save her own,
The watery Syrinx will allow to rise;
But,—as tho' Pan still woo'd,
And she again (pursued)
Fled o'er the amorous shallows,—so she sighs.
She sighs—like winds at eve,
Like lovers' tongues that grieve,
Like tones—oh! never to be heard again,
Like voices from the sea
Where the sea-maids be,
Like aught of pleasure with a touch of pain.
Like lovers' tongues that grieve,
Like tones—oh! never to be heard again,
Like voices from the sea
Where the sea-maids be,
Like aught of pleasure with a touch of pain.
A more melodious tune
Never beneath the moon
Was uttered, since the Delphian girls were young,
And the chaste Dian, bright
With beauty and delight,
Lay listening on the mountains, while they sung.
Never beneath the moon
Was uttered, since the Delphian girls were young,
And the chaste Dian, bright
With beauty and delight,
Lay listening on the mountains, while they sung.
179
A more entrancing song
Was never borne along
The ethereal sky, when at gray opening morn
The fiery horses rise,
Like victors from the skies,
Trampling the stars away till day is born.—
Was never borne along
The ethereal sky, when at gray opening morn
The fiery horses rise,
Like victors from the skies,
Trampling the stars away till day is born.—
—Alas!—no more may I,
Pale Syrinx, sigh for sigh
Give thee:—Complaining not my song I cease.—
—A spirit came and led
My soul amongst the dead,
And vanish'd. What is left,—but silence—peace?—
Pale Syrinx, sigh for sigh
Give thee:—Complaining not my song I cease.—
—A spirit came and led
My soul amongst the dead,
And vanish'd. What is left,—but silence—peace?—
| The Flood of Thessaly | |