THERE sinks the nebulous star we call the sun, If that hypothesis of theirs be sound,' Said Ida; 'let us down and rest;' and we Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, By every coppice-feather'd chasm and cleft, Dropt thro' the ambrosial gloom to where below No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean'd on me, Descending; once or twice she lent her hand, But when we planted level feet, and dipt A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow'd Then she, 'Let some one sing to us; lightlier move The minutes fledged with music:' and a maid, Of those beside her, smote her harp and sang. 'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 'Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 10 20 30 40 She ended with such passion that the tear Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 50 While down the streams that float us each and all But deals with the other distance and the hues Then I remember'd one myself had made, As I could ape their treble did I sing. 'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying south, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 'O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 'O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 'Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? ' O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown; Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. 'O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 'O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, Shall burst her veil; marsh-divers, rather, maid, I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. So they blaspheme the muse! But great is song |