 | Carmina crucis |  |
45
A PASTORAL.
A simple shepherd I,
Unskill'd to guard or tend
My flocks that wander slow,
But little prized by friend,
But little feared by foe;
Yet sweet and many are the songs I know.
Unskill'd to guard or tend
My flocks that wander slow,
But little prized by friend,
But little feared by foe;
Yet sweet and many are the songs I know.
In youth no gentle art
Was mine to learn or teach;
As shepherds wont, my speech
Was rude, unapt to reach
The ear, or win the heart,
Till, where moist willows grew, a slender reed
I found, and fashion'd fitly to my need.
Was mine to learn or teach;
As shepherds wont, my speech
Was rude, unapt to reach
The ear, or win the heart,
Till, where moist willows grew, a slender reed
I found, and fashion'd fitly to my need.
Then from the sedgy brook,
Where yet its kindred shook,
A sigh so deep, so sweet, so piercing broke,
That ere I knew, a sigh
Went back in fond reply,
And on my lips a sudden song awoke.
Where yet its kindred shook,
A sigh so deep, so sweet, so piercing broke,
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Went back in fond reply,
And on my lips a sudden song awoke.
With each warm tender thing
That thrust its head in spring,
From earth's dark breast, my spirit communed free;
A soul that loves and grieves
Would speak from out the leaves,
The clouds stole down the hills to talk with me.
That thrust its head in spring,
From earth's dark breast, my spirit communed free;
A soul that loves and grieves
Would speak from out the leaves,
The clouds stole down the hills to talk with me.
And oft with unconfess'd
Fond instinct, only guess'd,
Through some quick pressure, all the silent air,
The while I sang, would fill
With light, would throb and thrill
As if a mighty heart were beating there.
Fond instinct, only guess'd,
Through some quick pressure, all the silent air,
The while I sang, would fill
With light, would throb and thrill
As if a mighty heart were beating there.
And while I sang, the swains
That listen'd, straight forgot
How fierce upon the plains
The sun, the shepherd's lot
How hard—their slender gains,
Their ceaseless, thankless toils, remembering not.
That listen'd, straight forgot
How fierce upon the plains
The sun, the shepherd's lot
How hard—their slender gains,
Their ceaseless, thankless toils, remembering not.
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And while I sang, the maid
On tiptoe unafraid
Would steal at shut of eve, and linger long,
With parted lips, and shy
Sweet, unaverted eye,
Forgetting still the singer in the song.
On tiptoe unafraid
Would steal at shut of eve, and linger long,
With parted lips, and shy
Sweet, unaverted eye,
Forgetting still the singer in the song.
I sang of war, of love,
Of gods that reign above
In bliss, of men that suffer—still I sung
Of deeper pangs, of tears
More sweet, that fell in years
Of broader flight, while yet our earth was young.
Of gods that reign above
In bliss, of men that suffer—still I sung
Of deeper pangs, of tears
More sweet, that fell in years
Of broader flight, while yet our earth was young.
So sang I until song
Forsook me; I would tell
How this my strain so well
Beloved, beloved so long,
Fell from my lips, as falls the star,
As falls the leaf, to dwell
(If yet it lives) apart, afar
Like echo shut within a secret dell.
Forsook me; I would tell
How this my strain so well
Beloved, beloved so long,
Fell from my lips, as falls the star,
As falls the leaf, to dwell
(If yet it lives) apart, afar
Like echo shut within a secret dell.
It was the summer prime
Of noon, the sleeping time
Of Pan, no leaflet stirr'd, yet from the ground
Whereon I lay, the clear
Low breathing met mine ear
Of woods, rocks, vales, and hills in slumber bound.
Of noon, the sleeping time
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Whereon I lay, the clear
Low breathing met mine ear
Of woods, rocks, vales, and hills in slumber bound.
And on the air a slow
Sweet shining now would grow,
And o'er the sunny spaces flit and fail,
As if beloved and fair,
Earth softly, unaware,
Smiled 'neath the secret of her folded veil.
Sweet shining now would grow,
And o'er the sunny spaces flit and fail,
As if beloved and fair,
Earth softly, unaware,
Smiled 'neath the secret of her folded veil.
Beneath the beechen shade
The golden sunbeams stray'd
In sleep, my flock slept round me, all was still;
When from afar I caught
A flute's clear note, methought
Some shepherd bids me to a contest of sweet skill.
The golden sunbeams stray'd
In sleep, my flock slept round me, all was still;
When from afar I caught
A flute's clear note, methought
Some shepherd bids me to a contest of sweet skill.
It ceased, and at its close
A Voice in song arose,
So sword-like sweet, it seem'd to cleave the thin
Warm air, and still, with soft
Delay, to question oft,
And still to woo, and evermore to win.
A Voice in song arose,
So sword-like sweet, it seem'd to cleave the thin
Warm air, and still, with soft
Delay, to question oft,
And still to woo, and evermore to win.
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This was no ancient tale
Of flying nymph, or bold
Free hunter, this no old
Fond funereal wail
For Youth slow fading by a fountain's side
And yet a high lament
Through all its changes went,
It told of One that loved, it told of One that died.
Of flying nymph, or bold
Free hunter, this no old
Fond funereal wail
For Youth slow fading by a fountain's side
And yet a high lament
Through all its changes went,
It told of One that loved, it told of One that died.
It told of rude disgrace,
And of an anguish'd face
It told, methought; and of a wounded Friend.
Of pain it told, and shame;
Of love that overcame
Through simple skill of loving to the end.
And of an anguish'd face
It told, methought; and of a wounded Friend.
Of pain it told, and shame;
Of love that overcame
Through simple skill of loving to the end.
A silence on the plain,
A silence on the hill,
To hear that song again,
I listen, listen still.
Oh, sweet to me my vain
Old songs and stories free,
Thy story sad and plain
Is now more sweet to me.
A silence on the hill,
To hear that song again,
I listen, listen still.
Oh, sweet to me my vain
Old songs and stories free,
Thy story sad and plain
Is now more sweet to me.
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Take, Shepherd, take thy prize,
For who like thee can sing?
No fleece of mingled dyes,
No apples fair, I bring;
No smooth two-handled bowl,
Wrought with the clasping vine—
Take, take my heart and soul,
My songs, for they are thine!
For who like thee can sing?
No fleece of mingled dyes,
No apples fair, I bring;
No smooth two-handled bowl,
Wrought with the clasping vine—
Take, take my heart and soul,
My songs, for they are thine!
Oh! sing thy song again,
And these of mine may pass
As quick as summer rain
Dries on the thirsty grass.
Thou wouldst not do me wrong,
Thou wilt not silent be;
Thy one, thy only song,
Dear Shepherd, teach to me!
And these of mine may pass
As quick as summer rain
Dries on the thirsty grass.
Thou wouldst not do me wrong,
Thou wilt not silent be;
Thy one, thy only song,
Dear Shepherd, teach to me!
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