FullReads

XXXII.

“Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love
The raining music from a morning cloud,
When vanish’d larks are carolling above,
To wake Apollo with their pipings loud;–
If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud
The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell,
Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd,
And we will muffle up the sheepfold bell
Whene’er thou listenest to Philomel.”

XXXIII.

Then Saturn thus;–“Sweet is the merry lark,
That carols in man’s ear so clear and strong;
And youth must love to listen in the dark
That tuneful elegy of Tereus’ wrong;
But I have heard that ancient strain too long,
For sweet is sweet but when a little strange,
And I grow weary for some newer song;
For wherefore had I wings, unless to range
Through all things mutable, from change to change?”

XXXIV.

“But would’st thou hear the melodies of Time,
Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll
Over hush’d cities, and the midnight chime
Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells toll
Like a last knell over the dead world’s soul,
Saying, ‘Time shall be final of all things,
Whose late, last voice must elegize the whole,’–
O then I clap aloft my brave broad wings,
And make the wide air tremble while it rings!”

XXXV.

Then next a fair Eve-Fay made meek address,
Saying, “We be the handmaids of the Spring;
In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress,
Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing.
We tend upon buds birth and blossoming,
And count the leafy tributes that they owe–
As, so much to the earth–so much to fling
In showers to the brook–so much to go
In whirlwinds to the clouds that made them grow.”

XXXVI.

“The pastoral cowslips are our little pets,
And daisy stars, whose firmament is green;
Pansies, and those veil’d nuns, meek violets,
Sighing to that warm world from which they screen;
And golden daffodils, pluck’d for May’s Queen;
And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath;
And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen,
Whose tuneful voice, turn’d fragrance in his breath,
Kiss’d by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death.”

XXXVII.

“The widow’d primrose weeping to the moon
And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright
A cool libation hoarded for the noon
Is kept–and she that purifies the light,
The virgin lily, faithful to her white,
Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame;
And the most dainty rose, Aurora’s spright,
Our every godchild, by whatever name–
Spares us our lives, for we did nurse the same!”

XXXVIII.

Then that old Mower stamp’d his heel, and struck
His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground,
Saying, “Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck
With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crown’d
With flow’ry chaplets, save when they are found
Withered?–Whenever have I pluck’d a rose,
Except to scatter its vain leaves around?
For so all gloss of beauty I oppose,
And bring decay on every flow’r that blows.”

XXXIX.

“Or when am I so wroth as when I view
The wanton pride of Summer;–how she decks
The birthday world with blossoms ever-new,
As if Time had not lived, and heap’d great wrecks
Of years on years?–O then I bravely vex
And catch the gay Months in their gaudy plight,
And slay them with the wreaths about their necks,
Like foolish heifers in the holy rite,
And raise great trophies to my ancient might.”

XL.

Then saith another, “We are kindly things,
And like her offspring nestle with the dove,–
Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings,
To show our constant patronage of love:–
We sit at even, in sweet bow’rs above
Lovers, and shake rich odors on the air,
To mingle with their sighs; and still remove
The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear
Their privacy, and haunt some other where.”