And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 This for our wisest! and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear; With close-lipped patience for our only friend, Sad patience, too near neighbor to despair, But none has hope like thine! Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away. 200 But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from thy own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers, And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made: And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here, But once I knew each field, each flower, each stick; And with the country-folk acquaintance made By barn in threshing-time, by new-built rick. Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we first assayed. Ah me! this many a year My pipe is lost, my shepherd's-holiday! Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart Into the world and wave of men depart, But Thyrsis of his own will went away. It irked him to be here, he could not rest. He loved each simple joy the country yields, He loved his mates; but yet he could not keep, For that a shadow lowered on the fields, Here with the shepherds and the silly sheep. Some life of men unblest He knew, which made him droop, and filled his head. He went; his piping took a troubled sound Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; He could not wait their passing; he is dead. 50 |