OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown From antique reeds to common folk unknown: And often launched our bark upon that sea Which the nine Muses hold in empery, And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam, Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home Till we had freighted well our argosy. Of which despoilèd treasures these remain, Sordello’s passion, and the honeyed line Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine Driving his pampered jades, and more than these, The seven-fold vision of the Florentine, And grave-browed Milton’s solemn harmonies. SANTA DECCA THE Gods are dead: no longer do we bring To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves! Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves, And in the noon the careless shepherds sing, For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er: Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more; Great Pan is dead, and Mary’s son is King. And yet—perchance in this sea-trancèd isle, Chewing the bitter fruit of memory, Some God lies hidden in the asphodel. Ah Love! if such there be, then it were well For us to fly his anger: nay, but see, The leaves are stirring: let us watch awhile. CORFU. A VISION TWO crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan For sins no bleating victim can atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame, I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’ And she made answer, knowing well each name, ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’ IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE THE sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky Burned like a heated opal through the air; We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair For the blue lands that to the eastward lie. From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek, Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak, And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady. The flapping of the sail against the mast, The ripple of the water on the side, The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern, The only sounds:—when ’gan the West to burn, And a red sun upon the seas to ride, I stood upon the soil of Greece at last! KATAKOLO. THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY