To Manmohan Ghose

Not in the crystal air of a Greek glen, Not in the houses of imperial Rome, Lived he, who wore this beauty among men: No classic city was his ancient home. What happy country claims his fair youth then, Her pride? and what his fortunate lineage? Here is no common man of every day, This man, whose full and gleaming eyes assuage Never their longing, be that what it may: Of dreamland only he is citizen, Beyond the flying of the last sea's foam.

Set him beneath the Athenian olive trees, To speak with Marathonians: or to task The wise serenity of Socrates; Asking, what other men dare never ask. Love of his country and his gods? Not these The master thoughts, that comfort his strange heart, When life grows difficult, and the lights dim: In him is no simplicity, but art Is all in all, for life and death, to him: And whoso looks upon that fair face, sees No nature there: only a magic mask.

Or set this man beside the Roman lords, To vote upon the fate of Catiline; Or in a battle of stout Roman swords, Where strength and virtue were one thing divine: Or bind him to the cross with Punic cords. Think you, this unknown and mysterious man Had played the Roman, with that wistful smile, Those looks not moulded on a Roman plan, But full of witcheries and secret guile? Think you, those lips had framed true Roman words, Whose very curves have something Sibylline?

Thou wouldst but laugh, were one to question thee: Laugh with malign, bright eyes, and curious joy. Thou'rt fallen in love with thine own mystery! And yet thou art no Sibyl, but a boy. What wondrous land within the unvoyaged sea Haunts then thy thoughts, thy memories, thy dreams? Nay! be my friend; and share with me thy past: If haply I may catch enchaunting gleams, Catch marvellous music, while our friendship last: Tell me thy visions: though their true home be Some land, that was a legend in old Troy.