COME back, O lyric days, and bring From gardens bloom-beset, From pillared halls blown through by spring, From hills that haunt us yet, Those elders blithe, those sages rare Whose torch illumes the night; By their great shades, O Pedant, spare To do them such despite! The aorist is but the shell Beached by a sun-bright sea, Bend down, and hark: the mighty swell Murmurs immortality. Was it for this, ye gods, the lyre Was touched in days of old? Must grammar dim that leaping fire, And parsing leave it cold? We do such souls a grievous wrong Their parts of speech to take And coldly murder peerless song For Lindley Murray's sake. Give back, O Pedagogue, the love Of music gaily young; The immemorial magic of That bygone, golden tongue! |