White enchantment holds the spring, Where thou once wert wont to sing, And the cold hath cut to death Reeds melodious of thy breath. He, the rival of thy lyre, Nightingale with note of fire, Sings no more; but far away, From the windy hill-side gray, Calls the broken note forlorn Of an aged shepherd’s horn. Still about the fire they tell How it long ago befell That a shepherd maid and lad Met and trembled and were glad; When the swift spring waters ran, And the wind to boy or man Brought the aching of his sires-- Song and love and all desires. Ere the starry dogwoods fell They were lovers, so they tell. Woe is me to tell it thee, Winter winds in Arcady! Broken pipes and vows forgot, Scattered flocks returning not, Frozen brook and drifted hill, Ashen sun and song-birds still; Songs of summer and desire Crooned about the winter fire; Shepherd lads with silver hair, Shepherd maids no longer fair. PROVENÇAL LEGEND On his little grave and wild, Faustinus, the martyr child, Candytuft and mustards grow. Ah, how many a June has smiled On the turf he lies below. Ages gone they laid him there, Quit of sun and wholesome air, Broken flesh and tortured limb; Leaving all his faith the heir Of his gentle hope and him. Yonder, under pagan skies, Bleached by rains, the circus lies, Where they brought him from his play. Comeliest his of sacrifice, Youth and tender April day. “Art thou not the shepherd’s son?-- There the hills thy lambkins run?-- These the fields thy brethren keep?” “On a higher hill than yon Doth my Father lead His sheep.” “Bring thy ransom, then,” they say, “Gold enough to pave the way From the temple to the Rhone.” When he came, upon his day, Slender, tremulous, alone, Mustard flowers like these he pressed, Golden, flame-like, to his breast, Blooms the early weanlings eat. When his Triumph brought him rest, Yellow bloom lay at his feet. Golden play-days came: the air Called him, weanlings bleated there, Roman boys ran fleet with spring; Shorn of youth and usage fair, Hope nor hill-top days they bring. But the shepherd children still Come at Easter, warm or chill, Come with violets gathered wild From his sloping pasture hill, Play-fellows who would fulfill Play-time to that martyr child. THE ENCORE No garlands in the winter-time, No trumpets in the night! The song ye praise was done lang syne, And was its own delight. O’ God’s name take the wreath away, Since now the music’s sped; Ye never cry, “Long live the king!” Until the king is dead.