I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again;
More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst-
ing men,
Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we
could fulfil,
Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill;
Were such beloved forerunners one summer day
restored,
Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard.
Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I
Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie;
Where trees from distant forests, whose names were
strange to thee,
Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach
to be,
And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath
made more fair,
Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant
hair.
Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing
looks
To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern
books,
And wonder at the daring of poets later born,
Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is
to morn;
And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater
strength of soul,
Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the
goal.
As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls
Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing
halls;
And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled
heir
Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast
to share;
So from AEgean laurels that hide thine ancient urn
I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.
Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:
Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from
me.
My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer,
haste;
There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee
taste.
Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd,
speak:
Two minds shall flow together, the English and the
Greek.