And we forget, that when Oileus went From the wronged virgin and the ruined fane, When storms were howling round "Repent, Repent," Thy holy arrow pierced the spoiler's brain. To perish all the proud! but chiefly he, Who at the tramp of steeds and cymbal-beat Proclaimed, "I thunder! Why not worship me?" And thou didst slay him for his counterfeit. A DIRGE Naiad, hid beneath the bank By the willowy river-side, Where Narcissus gently sank, Where unmarried Echo died, Unto thy serene repose Waft the stricken Anteros. Where the tranquil swan is borne, Imaged in a watery glass, Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn Stoop to catch the boats that pass, Where the earliest orchis grows, Bury thou fair Anteros. Glide we by, with prow and oar: Ripple shadows off the wave, And reflected on the shore, Haply play about the grave. Folds of summer-light enclose All that once was Anteros. On a flickering wave we gaze, Not upon his answering eyes: Flower and bird we scarce can praise, Having lost his sweet replies: Cold and mute the river flows With our tears for Anteros. AN INVOCATION I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again; More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst- ing men, Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we could fulfil, Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill; Were such beloved forerunners one summer day restored, Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard. Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie; Where trees from distant forests, whose names were strange to thee, Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach to be, And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath made more fair, Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant hair. Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing looks To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern books, And wonder at the daring of poets later born, Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is to morn; And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater strength of soul, Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the goal. As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing halls; And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled heir Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast to share; So from AEgean laurels that hide thine ancient urn I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.