With pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man;
And wonder hushed the warbling bird,
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,—
The rolling river slowlier ran.
Ah! would,—ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan
This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute!
But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan,
Apollo's self might pass unheard,
Or find the night-jar's note preferred ...
Not so it fared, when time began
With pipe and flute!
Austin Dobson.
"IN AFTER DAYS."
In after days, when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honoured dust,
I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky,
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh,
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!
But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying—He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust.
Will none?... Then let my memory die
In after days!
Austin Dobson.