And adown the gleaming alleys
The gladness-givers glide;
And the wood-nymph murmurs "Follow,"
To the young man by my side.
BELIEF; THE UNKNOWN LANGUAGE.
AN IDYLL.
By summer-reeds a music murmur'd low,
And straight the Shepherd-age came back to me;
When idylls breathed where Himera's waters flow,
Or on the Hœmus hill, or Rhodopè;[A]
As when the swans, by Moschus heard at noon,
Mourn'd their lost Bion on the Thracian streams;[B]
Or when Simæthea murmur'd to the moon
Of Myndian Delphis,[C]—old Sicilian themes.
Then softly turning, on the margent-slope
Which back as clear translucent waters gave,
Behold, a Shape as beautiful as Hope,
And calm as Grief, bent, singing o'er the wave.
To the sweet lips, sweet music seem'd a thing
Natural as perfume to the violet.
All else was silent; not a zephyr's wing
Stirr'd from the magic of the charmer's net.
What was the sense beneath the silver tone?
What the fine chain that link'd the floating measure?
Not mine, to say,—the language was unknown,
And sense was lost in undistinguish'd pleasure.
Pleasure, dim-shadow'd with a gentle pain
As twilight Hesper with a twilight shroud;
Or like the balm of a delicious rain
Press'd from the fleeces of a summer cloud.