O singer of the field and fold,
Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine, --
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!
Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, --
The beechen bowl made glad with wine ...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, --
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!
And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine: --
O singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
/Home | 0 writebacks | permanent link
comment...