Songs of A Wayfarer By William Davies |
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| XLII. | XLII. TO A DRIED-UP STREAM. |
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 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
XLII. TO A DRIED-UP STREAM.
No more within thy limpid waters fleet
The nymph delights to lave her dainty feet,
Or, mirrored there,
To gaze upon a form which might have been
The brightest of a Grecian sculptor's dream,
And still more fair.
The nymph delights to lave her dainty feet,
Or, mirrored there,
To gaze upon a form which might have been
The brightest of a Grecian sculptor's dream,
And still more fair.
Henceforth Diana in her godlike grace,
And all her wood-nymphs, heated in the chase,
Thy cool waves miss:
Plump arm, round cheek, and snowy bosom bare
Have sought their noontide shelter otherwhere,
Forsaking this.
And all her wood-nymphs, heated in the chase,
Thy cool waves miss:
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Have sought their noontide shelter otherwhere,
Forsaking this.
Old Pan, who oft would lay aside his crook,
Finding beside thee some secluded nook,
And pipe all day,
No more upon thy banks is ever heard
(The trembling leaves with music lightly stirred),
Piping away.
Finding beside thee some secluded nook,
And pipe all day,
No more upon thy banks is ever heard
(The trembling leaves with music lightly stirred),
Piping away.
At golden sunset or at cool star-dawn
The shepherd sits no more upon the lawn
Telling his tale
Of love to her who from the heights above
With timid step and smile was wont to rove
Adown the vale.
The shepherd sits no more upon the lawn
Telling his tale
Of love to her who from the heights above
With timid step and smile was wont to rove
Adown the vale.
The alder that thy ripples used to stir,
Waking to flight the flashing kingfisher
Which dwelt therein,
Has folded up his yellow leaves and sere,
And knows no more that summer still is here,
Fresh, fair and green.
Waking to flight the flashing kingfisher
Which dwelt therein,
Has folded up his yellow leaves and sere,
And knows no more that summer still is here,
Fresh, fair and green.
The weeping willow, all its tears foregone,
Now drops its flaccid leaflets one by one
To fade and rot:
The ferns that fringed thy mossy caves and grots
Hang withered plumes: thy blue forget-me-nots
Are all forgot.
Now drops its flaccid leaflets one by one
To fade and rot:
The ferns that fringed thy mossy caves and grots
Hang withered plumes: thy blue forget-me-nots
Are all forgot.
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For singing of the nightingale and thrush
The loud cicala screams from every bush
With harsh, dry throat:
The flowers that broidered all thy grassy brink,
And bowed themselves thy sparkling spray to drink,
Are dead of drought.
The loud cicala screams from every bush
With harsh, dry throat:
The flowers that broidered all thy grassy brink,
And bowed themselves thy sparkling spray to drink,
Are dead of drought.
Where once the dashing waters tumbled down
A lizard basks upon a smooth white stone,
Then slips beneath:
A butterfly is flutt'ring where there was
A little dimple on thy face of glass
Stirred by a breath.
A lizard basks upon a smooth white stone,
Then slips beneath:
A butterfly is flutt'ring where there was
A little dimple on thy face of glass
Stirred by a breath.
The fish that loved to haunt thy shadowy brim,
And in thy broad, brown pools to lie and swim,
Has vanished now:
The gauze-winged dragon-fly has left alone
The bubbling shallows which he knew, and gone
Where others flow.
And in thy broad, brown pools to lie and swim,
Has vanished now:
The gauze-winged dragon-fly has left alone
The bubbling shallows which he knew, and gone
Where others flow.
The wind that wandered lightly up and down
Thy banks with joy now makes his gentle moan
And inly grieves;
And, for the sweets he once about thee blew,
Has brought, to hide thy nakedness, a few
Of last year's leaves.
Thy banks with joy now makes his gentle moan
And inly grieves;
And, for the sweets he once about thee blew,
Has brought, to hide thy nakedness, a few
Of last year's leaves.
Of all thy waterweeds and cresses green,
And bristling rushes, now not one is seen
To wave or blow:
Only the oak wherein the small birds sing
Hath made to thee the single offering
Of one dry bough.
And bristling rushes, now not one is seen
To wave or blow:
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Hath made to thee the single offering
Of one dry bough.
Those liquid babblings, thy own sylvan hymn,
Dying within the dewy woodland dim,
Are past and gone;
And scarcely memory in her tenderest moods
Recalls a note, to wake these solitudes,
Of thy rare tone.
Dying within the dewy woodland dim,
Are past and gone;
And scarcely memory in her tenderest moods
Recalls a note, to wake these solitudes,
Of thy rare tone.
Monte Luco, Spoleto, July 1867.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |