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SYRINX.

Come forth, too timid spirit of the reed!
Leave thy plashed coverts and elusions shy,
And find delight at large in grove and mead.
No ambushed harm, no wanton peering eye,
The shepherd's uncouth God thou need'st not fear,
Pan has not passed this way for many a year.

'Tis but the vagrant wind that makes thee start,—
The pleasure-loving south, the freshening west;
The willow's woven veil they softly part,

To fan the lily on the stream's warm breast:
No ruder stir, no footstep pressing near,—
Pan has not passed this way for many a year.

Whether he lies in some mossed wood, asleep,
And heeds not how the acorns drop around,
Or in some shelly cavern near the deep,

Lulled by its pulses of eternal sound,

He wakes not, answers not our sylvan cheer,
Pan has been gone this many a silent year.

Else we had seen him, through the mists of the morn,
To upland pasture lead his bleating charge:
There is no shag upon the stunted thorn,

No hoof-print on the river's silver marge;
Nor broken branch of pine, nor ivied spear,-
Pan has not passed that way for many a year.

O tremulous elf, reach me a hollow pipe,

The best and smoothest of thy hollow store! Now, I may blow till time be hoary ripe,

And listening streams forsake the paths they wore:

Pan loved the sound, but now will never hear,-
Pan has not trimmed a reed this many a year.

And so, come freely forth, and through the sedge
Lift up a dimpled warm Arcadian face,
As on that day when fear thy feet did fledge,

And thou didst safely win the breathless race-
I am deceived: nor Pan nor thou art here,-
Pan has been gone this many a silent year!

HOMESICK.

This were a miracle, if it could be!

If, never loitering since the prime of day,
Since kissing the cool lips of Northern May,
This drowsy wind, at evening, brought to me
The fragrant spirit of the apple-tree;

Or, if so far sweet sounds could make their way,
That I should hear the robin's twilight lay
Float o'er a thousand leagues of foamy sea!
Now, save I know those eyes exchange no beams
With yonder star (so curves the earth between),
I'd say: My friend doth from his casement lean,
And charge Canopus, by his pilot-gleams,
To bear love to my port, and lovely dreams

Of homeward slopes new-clothed with summer green.

Maunce thompson

ATALANTA.

When spring grows old, and sleepy winds
Set from the south with odors sweet,
I see my love, in green, cool groves,
Speed down dusk aisles on shining feet.

She throws a kiss and bids me run,
In whispers sweet as roses' breath;

I know I cannot win the race,

And at the end, I know, is death.

But joyfully I bare my limbs,

Anoint me with the tropic breeze, And feel through every sinew run The vigor of Hippomenes.

O race of love! we all have run

Thy happy course through groves of spring,

And cared not, when at last we lost,

For life or death or anything!

A PRELUDE.

I.

Spirit that moves the sap in spring,
When lusty male-birds fight and sing,
Inform my words, and make my lines
As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines !

Let mine be the freshening power
Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;
The fertilizing song be mine
Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.

Let some procreant truth exhale
From me, before my forces fail;
Or ere the ecstatic impulse go
Let all my buds to blossoms blow.

II.

If quick, sound seed be wanting where
The virgin soil feels sun and air,

And longs to fill a higher state,

There let my meanings germinate.

Let not my strength be spilled for naught,

But, in some fresher vessel caught,

Be blended into sweeter forms,

And fraught with purer aims and charms.

Let bloom-dust of my life be blown
To quicken hearts that flower alone!
Around my knees let scions rise
With heavenward-pointing destinies.

And when I fall, like some old tree,

And subtile change makes mould of me,

There let earth show a fertile line,

Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine

WILD HONEY.

I.

Where hints of racy sap and gum

Out of the old dark forest come;

Where birds their beaks like hammers wield, And pith is pierced, and bark is peeled;

Where the green walnut's outer rind
Gives precious bitterness to the wind;

There lurks the sweet creative power,
As lurks the honey in the flower.

II.

In winter's bud that bursts in spring,
In nut of autumn's ripening,

In acrid bulb beneath the mould,
Sleeps the elixir, strong and old,

That Rosicrucians sought in vain,—
Life that renews itself again!

III.

What bottled perfume is so good
As fragrance of split tulip-wood?.

What fabled drink of god or muse
Was rich as purple mulberry-juice?

And what school-polished gem of thought
Is like the rune from Nature caught?

IV.

He is a poet strong and true

Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew;

And like a brown bee works and sings
With morning freshness on his wings,

And a golden burden on his thighs,-
The pollen-dust of centuries!

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