In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of " Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But,” There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;- And the light hours dance to the trysting time, ENVOY. In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! AUSTIN DOBSON. X THE GOD OF WINE. [CHANT ROYAL.] I. B EHOLD, above the mountains there is light, bright With pale aëreal flame, that drives up higher The lurid airs that all the long night were Breasting the dark ravines and coverts bare; Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose, And down the vales a lyric people flows, Who dance to music, and in dancing fling Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. II. Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire; Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, With ivy circling their abundant hair, Onward, with even pace, in stately rows With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. III. The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white, Smooth without wound of thorn, or fleck of mire, IV. And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire, Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight, And wandered forth through many a scourging brier, And waited shivering in the icy air, And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there, The time must come, that every poet knows, V. But oh within the heart of this great flight, The immortal splendour of his face he shows. And, where he glances, leaf, and flower, and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. |