POETRY.
IN ARCADY.
A LITTLE breath from spray to spray
That wanders with a purposed quiet, As tho' it were so calm a day To shock it were unholy riot ; A. little cloud-wreath in the sky That melts, and then its shape renewing, Then melts again, as tho' on high 'Twere holiday, and nothing doing ; A hum of bee, a little song Of bird in praise of endless summer, That will not break the stillness long, But leaves it to a chance new-corner ; A little sound of rippling stream Now heard, now hushed, its deep leaves under, Like murmurs of an infant's dream That barely part sweet lips asunder ; And Ocean's face for many a mile In calm, with scarce a wavelet breaking, As sleeping eyelids ope Then close again without awaking ;— All say 'tis noon, and Silence sleeps With Beauty. Hence, and leave her sleeping, Lulled by the tiny fall that leaps Beside her there in silver leaping.
Noon in the South ! A perfect thing Of love, and light, and warmth, and colour, That, drowsy as a vampire's wing, Float round the soul in sloth to lull her.
Noon in the South ! Then haste, away, Dear Soul away, we may not tarry ! Enough, if hence for many a day Some sunshine of the heart we carry.
Enough, if 'mid our mist and snow We may in darker hours remember, The bliss, the warmth, the Southern glow, That mingled July with December.
But now a harp of loftier tone I hear resound to Dorian measure, Say, Arcady is rest alone, But toil is strung to nobler pleasure ; Say. Arcady is fair and fine, Where Pan is lord of Man and Nature ; But 'neath his face and form divine Lurks cloven hoof of Faun and Satyr.
And sadness sits in every eye, And cynic youth is old at twenty; Who looks for aught in Arcady But languid ease and far niente !
Then hence away, and Northward ho !
Where souls and limbs of men are stronger : But, 0 ye powers of frost and snow, Would holidays were somewhat longer ! A. G. B.
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