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33
THE LOST LYRE.
In what deep forest, old and hoar,
Untracked, unechoed evermore,
Lies wreathed in leaves the ivory lyre
That Orpheus bore?
For surely still a holy fire
Its chords respire!
Untracked, unechoed evermore,
Lies wreathed in leaves the ivory lyre
That Orpheus bore?
For surely still a holy fire
Its chords respire!
Ah! would that I, with eyes cast down,
Might thread those solemn paths and brown,
Where endless autumn pines for aye;
That moony crown
Would win my feet to stir and stray
On the right way.
Might thread those solemn paths and brown,
Where endless autumn pines for aye;
That moony crown
Would win my feet to stir and stray
On the right way.
34
Till, stooping in that murmurous land,
The wonder in my trembling hand
Should quiver like a breathing thing,
And, lightly fanned,
Each tremulous immortal string
Bid me to sing.
The wonder in my trembling hand
Should quiver like a breathing thing,
And, lightly fanned,
Each tremulous immortal string
Bid me to sing.
And I should sing; and round me then
All mild-eyed beasts and savage men
Would gather softly to adore;
The lion's den
Stand empty; and the sullen shore
Forget to roar.
All mild-eyed beasts and savage men
Would gather softly to adore;
The lion's den
Stand empty; and the sullen shore
Forget to roar.
But swift before a sunset breeze,
Across the dolphin-haunted seas,
My lyre and I would seek the dim
Hesperides,
Where fainting crimsons overbrim
The low sky's rim.
Across the dolphin-haunted seas,
My lyre and I would seek the dim
Hesperides,
Where fainting crimsons overbrim
The low sky's rim.
35
For why should men again refuse
The lyre's reward, the poet's dues,
Should Hebrus bleed again, or hear
A shrieking Muse?
Nay! we should spurn the upland drear,
And seaward steer.
The lyre's reward, the poet's dues,
Should Hebrus bleed again, or hear
A shrieking Muse?
Nay! we should spurn the upland drear,
And seaward steer.
For lo! what joy could be to sing
To idle men a mystic thing
High-poised above their ken or care?
Let Atys ring
His shriller cymbal in mid-air,
While forth we fare.
To idle men a mystic thing
High-poised above their ken or care?
Let Atys ring
His shriller cymbal in mid-air,
While forth we fare.
Forth ere the film of living fire
Can fade above the dim white lyre,
Before the sacred chords grow slack,
Ere men can tire
Of holy song, or tempests' wrack
Can wave us back.
Can fade above the dim white lyre,
Before the sacred chords grow slack,
Ere men can tire
Of holy song, or tempests' wrack
Can wave us back.
36
O fruitless dream! our pensive age
Hath hopelessness for heritage,
Satiety of song for meed,
And for the rage
Of lyric prophets born to bleed,
A broken reed.
Hath hopelessness for heritage,
Satiety of song for meed,
And for the rage
Of lyric prophets born to bleed,
A broken reed.
A broken reed, and only fit
For song to make a flute of it,
To pipe her memories of time past;
The sad airs flit
Across its wounded side; 'tis cast
Away at last.
For song to make a flute of it,
To pipe her memories of time past;
The sad airs flit
Across its wounded side; 'tis cast
Away at last.
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