Ballade To Theocritus, In Winter

ἐσορῶν τὰν Σικελὰν ἐς ἅλα. Id. viii. 56.

Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar Of London, leave the bustling street, For still, by the Sicilian shore, The murmur of the Muse is sweet. Still, still, the suns of summer greet The mountain-grave of Helikê, And shepherds still their songs repeat Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.

What though they worship Pan no more, That guarded once the shepherd's seat, They chatter of their rustic lore, They watch the wind among the wheat: Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat, Where whispers pine to cypress tree; They count the waves that idly beat Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.

Theocritus! thou canst restore The pleasant years, and over-fleet; With thee we live as men of yore, We rest where running waters meet: And then we turn unwilling feet And seek the world--so must it be-- We may not linger in the heat Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!

ENVOY.

Master,--when rain, and snow, and sleet And northern winds are wild, to thee We come, we rest in thy retreat, Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!

VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.

Te soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like streams that flow, The ocean dark as wine, To my true love to whisper low, To be your Valentine.

The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, "I'll send an April day," she said, "To lands of wintry woe." He came,--the winter's overthrow,-- With showers that sing and shine, Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine.

Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, 'Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead, By the Nile's overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost, her foe, To be your Valentine.

ENVOY.

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, Their various voice combine; But that they crave on me bestow, To be your Valentine.