BACCHANALIA
I
The evening comes, the fields are still.
The tinkle of the thirsty rill,
Unheard all day, ascends again;
Deserted is the half-mown plain,
Silent the swaths! the ringing wain,
The mower's cry, the dog's alarms,
All housed within the sleeping farms!
The business of the day is done,
The last-left haymaker is gone.
And from the thyme upon the height,
And from the elder-blossom white
And pale dog-roses in the hedge,
And from the mint-plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blows
The perfume which the day forgoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with the first-born star,
The liquid sky above the hill!
The evening comes, the fields are still.
Loitering and leaping,
With saunter, with
bounds—
Flickering and circling
In files and in rounds—
Gaily their pine-staff
green
Tossing in air,
Loose o'er their
shoulders white
Showering their hair—
See! the wild Maenads
Break from the wood,
Youth and Iacchus
Maddening their blood.
See! through the quiet
land
Rioting they pass—
Fling the fresh heaps
about,
Trample the grass.
Tear from the rifled
hedge
Garlands, their prize;
Fill with their sports
the field,
Fill with their cries.
Shepherd, what ails
thee, then?
Shepherd, why mute?
Forth with thy joyous
song!
Forth with thy flute!
Tempts not the revel
blithe?
Lure not their cries?
Glow not their
shoulders smooth?
Melt not their eyes?
Is not, on cheeks like
those,
Lovely the flush?
—Ah, so the quiet
was!
So was the hush!
II
The epoch ends, the world is still.
The age has talk'd and work'd its fill—
The famous orators have shone,
The famous poets sung and gone,
The famous men of war have fought,
The famous speculators thought,
The famous players, sculptors, wrought,
The famous painters fill'd their wall,
The famous critics judged it all.
The combatants are parted now—
Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,
The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.
And in the after-silence sweet,
Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet,
Ascending pure, the bell-like fame
Of this or that down-trodden name,
Delicate spirits, push'd away
In the hot press of the noon-day.
And o'er the plain, where the dead age
Did its now silent warfare wage—
O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,
Where many a splendour finds its tomb,
Many spent fames and fallen mights—
The one or two immortal lights
Rise slowly up into the sky
To shine there everlastingly,
Like stars over the bounding hill.
The epoch ends, the world is still.
Thundering and bursting
In torrents, in waves—
Carolling and shouting
Over tombs, amid
graves—
See! on the cumber'd
plain
Clearing a stage,
Scattering the past
about,
Comes the new age.
Bards make new poems,
Thinkers new schools,
Statesmen new systems,
Critics new rules.
All things begin again;
Life is their prize;
Earth with their deeds
they fill,
Fill with their cries.
Poet, what ails thee,
then?
Say, why so mute?
Forth with thy praising
voice!
Forth with thy flute!
Loiterer! why sittest
thou
Sunk in thy dream?
Tempts not the bright
new age?
Shines not its stream?
Look, ah, what genius,
Art, science, wit!
Soldiers like Caesar,
Statesmen like Pitt!
Sculptors like Phidias,
Raphaels in shoals,
Poets like Shakespeare—
Beautiful souls!
See, on their glowing
cheeks
Heavenly the flush!
—Ah, so the
silence was!
So was the hush!
The world but feels the present's spell,
The poet feels the past as well;
Whatever men have done, might do,
Whatever thought, might think it too.
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