Muse of the mystic flute and purling stream, In nature's fairest summer garlands drest, I saw a wild bird resting on thy breast— A wan dove, crooning in a midday dream; So strangely sweet the song, I knew its theme Was mother-love within a downy nest; And then I knew it mocked the tenderest Of all thy golden bursts of song supreme. I saw two lordly stags in deathful fight; The rasp of clashing antlers, and the cries Of rage for conquest shuddered to the skies— A grand, primeval anthem voicing Might; And then, O muse! I bowed before thy power That speaks the tempest or the lisping flower. |