CXXIV

τέως δὲ κούφοις πνεύμασιν βόσκου νέαν ψυχὴν ἀτάλλων, μητρὶ τῇδε χαρμονήν. Suspiciens fagi contento lumine frondes aestiva reficit membra natator aqua; quam facili motu lucentes porrigit artus,

dumque coruscantem discutit ore comam, murmurat haec secum, fallentia nubila visum increpitans-a! quam dulce volare foret! aspernare senem, si vis: audacia ride

verba-leves levibus risibus adde iocos.
quid voluit vates fatuus sibi? quid velit, immo
nesciat ingenua simplicitate puer.

dum ventura videns clamo, “mihi crede, volabis";
nare homini fas est: quis tamen esset avis?
nil hodie curas, nisi qua redimita corolla

sit soror; integrum pectus amore vacat. qui matrem deceant lapides, quae serta capillos cingant artificum fraude polita, rogas. tardius accedant lentis ingressibus horae ;

sub fago gelida sit tibi longa quies. ingenium pennas et amor dabit; at breve mecum, me duce securum tende parumper iter. fac pateant dulci mentis secreta loquella,

pelle vagas pecudes, lilia frange manu. sucus ubi sistet, fient ubi germina flores, fructum alii carpent:—a! miser occidero.

E. D. S.

CXXV

GRATA SUPERVENIET QUAE NON
SPERABITUR HORA

Non vana tellus semina condidit!
ardore Titan ferveat aereo,
glebamque vertenti calentem

non tenuis caput herba tollat;
vitale semper germen humo viget;
fons dius edit nectareas opes;
mox vernus umentes harenas
cinget honor viridi corona.

CXXVI

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND

I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.

Why should it sleep not? Why should it stir?
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirr'd ?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes

And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart ; Lie still, for the wind on the warm sea dozes,

And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?

Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferr'd? What bids the lids of thy sleep depart?

Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,

It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard ;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.

Envoi

In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,

Only the song of a secret bird.

Swinburne

CXXVI

PERVIGILIUM SOMNIORUM

Cor latet mi; quis latebris? in rosarum nidulo devio latet, vias qui solis ultra delitet.

in cubili molliore candida et molli nive
sub rosetis, ut quiescat, seposivi cor meum.
cor negat dormire velle? qualis occupat tremor?
mota nulla frons tremebat, aura nulla inhorruit;
excitata est sed tremente pennula quies. quid est?
vox canit, vias latentis vox avis per avias.

cor quiesce! ventus alas ecce componit suas, et sagittas solis acres arcet umbra frondium. cor quiesce! nam quiescit aequore aestivo super te, meum cor, inquieto ventus inquietior, aibam; an est quod usque sentis, vulnus ut sentis, malum ? mordet importunus usque dens inexpletae spei ? quis iubet quietem ocellos ut resignans avolet ?

vox iubet, vias latentis vox avis per avias.

terra mira, quae magi vim passa quandam est carminis, delitet; geographorum charta nomen haud refert. dulcia arbustis videre poma ibi est crescentia, dulcia in foro sed illa poma venum non eunt; somnia errant, non chelidon, prata per sublustria ; arborum modis soporis mussitant cacumina; non sonu rauco cietur cerva silvestris canum;

vox ciet, vias latentis vox avis per avias. certum ibi est in somniorum deviis mihi locis paululum dormire, qua iam nec sonent per somnia vera amoris verba veri, falsa verba nec vagi, sola sed vias latentis vox avis per avias.

CXXVII

FROM 'THE RUBÂIYÂT OF OMAR KHAYYÂM’

But lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a vessel on his shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas-the Grape !

The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute :
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute :

The mighty Mahmúd, Allah-breathing Lord,
That all the misbelieving and black Horde

Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.

Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?

A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse-why, then, Who set it there?

I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,

Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup-when crumbled into Dust!

Oh threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain-This life flies;

One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.

Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us passed the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the road,
Which to discover we must travel too.

CXXVII

Νῦν μὲν πίνοντες τερπώμεθα καλὰ λέγοντες·
ὅσσα δ ̓ ἔπειτ ̓ ἔσται ταῦτα θεοῖσι μέλει.

Limina mi nuper stanti ad reserata tabernae
per tenebras fulsit candida forma dei,
quamque humero vexit gustandam praebuit urnam,
en! liquor, arenti quem dedit, uva fuit.

agmina doctorum decies septena virorum inter se certant; dixerit uva, silent; plumbea materies, hominum genus unde creatum est, aurea contactu, nec mora, vitis erit.

consulit haec nobis vates verissima, magni quae mentem inspirat laetitiamque dei, terroresque animi dubios curasque malignas fulmineo victrix hinc procul ense fugat.

si deus ipse dedit, quis curvae vimina vitis audeat imprudens insimulare doli?

si bona sunt, utenda negas? sin tristia, tales dic mihi quem laqueos apposuisse putem ?

quid? poenas, quarum auctor abest mihi certus, inanes praemetuens, laeta vite carere velim ?

divinive magis potus spe captus habendi,

ipse calix olim quum modo pulvis ero?

Tartareasque minas, sperataque gaudia caeli

non moror; hoc certum est, haec mea vita fugit. caetera falsa ferunt; alios non noverit ortus

qui semel expansa flos tibi fronde perit.

hoc fueris mirata, hominum tot milia mortis
priscorum obscuras ante subisse fores,
nec quemquam rediisse viam qui panderet atram,
quam nisi calcatam noscere fata vetant.