2639
Ode to an Orkian Ore
PaxKivimae
Thou still unravish'd bride of quiteness. Thou foster-chils of Silence and slow time. Sylvan historian, who canst thus express . A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape. Of dieties or mortals, or of both. In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? ---------------------------------------------------- Heard melodies are sweet, but thos 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. Thy song, nor ever can those trees bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal- yet, go not grieve; She cannot fade, though hast not thy bliss, for ever wilt thoulove , and she be fair! Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed. Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And happy melodist, unwearied, For ever piping songs forever new; More happy love! mor happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, for ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above, that leaves a heart high-sorroeful and cloy'd. A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. ------------------------------------ -------------- Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest. Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? With little town by river or seashore, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel. Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore. Will silent be: And not a soul, to tell. Why thou are desolate, can e'er return. --------------------------------------------- O attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, with forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought. As doth etenity; Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation watse, Thou salt remain, in midst of other woe. Than ours, a friend to man to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty,-that is all. Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. +                             + --Pagar Narfang. -End of Poem-