474

A loftier Argo cleaves the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,

And loves, and weeps, and dies. A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore.

O, write no more the tale of Troy,

If earth Death's scroll must be! Nor mix with Laian rage the joy

Which dawns upon the free: Although a subtler Sphinx renew

Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not
leave

15 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy, bliss,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 20

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel

Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.