Classic Poem

Walking at dew-fall yester-eve, I met
The shepherd Lycidas adown the vale.
“What ho! my piping wonder!” I exclaimed,
Seeing his eyes were bent upon the ground,
Counting the pebbles, lost it seemed in thought;
“What cheer, dear Lycid! why are you so wrapt?
Has Galatea, white-handed maid, been false?
Or have the Muses quite forsaken you?”
“O, no! Theocritus,” he said with smiles,
“White-handed Galatea has not been false,
Nor have the Muses yet forsaken me.
You know, my friend, the man I love so much,
The Spartan Poet, brave and beautiful;—
I have been sketching out a simple song,
About his style of singing, and mine own.”
“O, let me hear it!” I replied with glee,
“Fresh from your brain, with all its fire and faults;
There's nothing like a poet's first rude draft;
Go on! go on!” said I. And he began.

“Great is Apollo with his golden shell,
The gift of Hermes in his infancy;
And great is Hermes' self, light-fingered god:
But greater far than both, illustrious Pan,
Divinest Pan, who taught the shepherd swains
In Thessaly the wonder of his pipe.—
Hear me, great Pan! O, let thy spirit breathe
From out these oaten stops, and I will pile
Three square stones, altar-wise, and offer up
A lamb to thee, the firstling of my flock!

We love in others what we lack ourselves,
And would be every thing but what we are.
The vine uplifts its trailing parasites,
And clasps the great arms of the stooping oak,
Till both are wedded with a thousand rings!
I have a friend as different from myself,
As Hercules from Hylas, his delight.
True Poets are we both, but he the best:
His songs are full of nobleness and power,
Magnificent as storms on Caucasus,
Or the deep runes the solemn Ocean chants
White-haired in echoing caverns; mine are low
As Spring's first airs, and delicate as buds.
He loves the rugged mountains, stern and wild,
Lifting their summits in the blank of dawn
Crested with surging pines; and the gray seas
That urge their heavy waves on rocky crags;
And the unmeasured vastness of the sky,
With all its stars, intense, and white, and cold:
But I am soft and gentle as a fawn
That licks the hand that feeds it; or the dove
That nestles in the breast of Cytherea!—
I love the haunt of wood-nymphs, and the mists
Where Oreads shroud their thin divinity;
The lawns, and meadows, and the pasture-lands
Sprinkled with daisies, and all quiet spots.
My heart is full of sweetness, like a rose;
And delicate melodies like vernal bees
Hum to themselves within its folded leaves,
So deep in honey that they cannot stir!
I would be Pleasure's Poet till I died,
And die at last upon her burning heart;
But he, selected for his majesty,
To Wisdom turns, and worships her afar,
Awed by her calm, large eyes, and spacious brow:
And yet in sooth his heart is soft enough,
With all its strength, enthroned in loveliness
Like Etna looming from its base of flowers;
And he will wed his love ere Summer dies,
While I must live a pensive bachelor;
A state I am not fond of,—no, by Jove!
But never mind it; I will still sing on,
And be the ablest nightingale I can,
And he may be the eagle if he will;
I cannot follow him, I know right well,—
None half so well,—but I will watch his flight
And love him, though he leave me for the stars!”

Thus sang the shepherd Lycidas to me,
And when the sickle of the Moon was drawn
From out its sheaf of clouds, and Hesper lit
His harvest torch, we parted for the night.