Now henceforth their shrine is builded, high and vast, Alway drawing noble hearts to noble deeds; In the toil of glory to be, and the tale of glory past: While ever the laughing waves of youth pass over the meads, And the tongue of Hellas is heard, and old Time slumbereth light In the cradle of Peace. O let thy dancing feet Roam in our land and abide, dear Peace, thou child of Right, Giver of happiness, gentle and sweet. 18 ODE TO MUSIC WRITTEN FOR THE BICENTENARY COMMEMORATION OF HENRY PURCELL _Music composed by Sir Hubert Parry, and performed at the Leeds Festival and Commemoration Festival in London, 1895_ I Myriad-voiced Queen, Enchantress of the air, Bride of the life of man! With tuneful reed, With string and horn and high-adoring quire Thy welcome we prepare. In silver-speaking mirrors of desire, In joyous ravishment of mystery draw thou near, With heavenly echo of thoughts, that dreaming lie Chain'd in unborn oblivion drear, Thy many-hearted grace restore Unto our isle our own to be, And make again our Graces three. II Turn, O return! In merry England Foster'd thou wert with infant Liberty. Her gloried oaks, that stand With trembling leaves and giant heart Drinking in beauty from the summer moon, Her wild-wood once was dear to thee. There the birds with tiny art Earth's immemorial cradle-tune Warble at dawn to fern and fawn, In the budding thickets making merry; And for their love the primrose faint Floods the green shade with youthful scent. Come, thy jocund spring renew By hyacinthine lakes of blue: Thy beauty shall enchant the buxom May; And all the summer months shall strew thy way, And rose and honeysuckle rear Their flowery screens, till under fruit and berry The tall brake groweth golden with the year. III Thee fair Poetry oft hath sought, Wandering lone in wayward thought, On level meads by gliding streams, When summer noon is full of dreams: And thy loved airs her soul invade, Haunting retired the willow shade. Or in some walled orchard nook She communes with her ancient book, Beneath the branches laden low; While the high sun o'er bosom'd snow Smiteth all day the long hill-side With ripening cornfields waving wide. There if thou linger all the year, No jar of man can reach thine ear, Or sweetly comes, as when the sound From hidden villages around, Threading the woody knolls, is borne Of bells that dong the Sabbath morn. IV 1 The sea with melancholy war Moateth about our castled shore; His world-wide elemental moan Girdeth our lives with tragic zone.