Grace I take not of men's thanksgiving, I crave not of lips that live; They die, and behold, I am living, While they and their dead Gods give Place. THALASSIUS Yea: Too lightly the words were spoken That mourned or mocked at thee dead: But whose was the word, the token, The song that answered and said Nay? PAN Whose But mine, in the midnight hidden, Clothed round with the strength of night And mysteries of things forbidden For all but the one most bright Muse? THALASSIUS Hers Or thine, O Pan, was the token That gave back empire to thee When power in thy hands lay broken As reeds that quake if a bee Stirs? PAN Whom Have I in my wide woods need of? Urania's limitless eyes Behold not mine end, though they read of A word that shall speak to the skies Doom. THALASSIUS She Gave back to thee kingdom and glory, And grace that was thine of yore, And life to thy leaves, late hoary As weeds cast up from the hoar Sea. Song Can bid faith shine as the morning Though light in the world be none: Death shrinks if her tongue sound warning, Night quails, and beholds the sun Strong. PAN Night Bare rule over men for ages Whose worship wist not of me And gat but sorrows for wages, And hardly for tears could see Light. Call No more on the starry presence Whose light through the long dark swam: Hold fast to the green world's pleasance: For I that am lord of it am All. THALASSIUS God, God Pan, from the glad wood's portal The breaths of thy song blow sweet: But woods may be walked in of mortal Man's thought, where never thy feet Trod. Thine All secrets of growth and of birth are, All glories of flower and of tree, Wheresoever the wonders of earth are; The words of the spell of the sea Mine. A BALLAD OF BATH Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep, Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours, Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creep Soft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep, Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers. Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers, Touch not thee, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears, Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace, Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres: Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.