GREEK ECHOES

Not here, O Apollo!

Are haunts meet for thee.

But where Helicon breaks down

In cliff to the sea,

Where the moon-silver'd inlets
Send far their light voice
Up the still vale of Thisbe,

O speed and rejoice!

Arnold

GREEK ECHOES

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S

Μ'

HOMER

UCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;

Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told, That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific-and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmiseSilent, upon a peak in Darien.

John Keats

T

ON A GRECIAN URN

HOU still unravish'd bride of quietness!
Thou foster-child of Silence and slow
Time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these What maidens

loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ec

stasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea-shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty," that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. John Keats

T

SONGS OF CALLICLES

I

HE track winds down to the clear stream, To cross the sparkling shallows; there The cattle love to gather, on their way To the high mountain-pastures, and to stay, Till the rough cow-herds drive them past, Knee-deep in the cool ford; for 'tis the last Of all the woody, high, well-watered del's On Etna; and the beam

Of noon is broken there by chestnut-boughs Down its steep verdant sides; the air

Is freshened by the leaping stream, which throws Eternal showers of spray on the mossed roots Of trees, and veins of turf, and long dark shoots