At last they knew that they had died
When they heard music in that land,
And someone there stole forth a hand
To draw a brother to his side.



INVITATION
TO A YOUNG BUT LEARNED FRIEND TO ABANDON ARCHAEOLOGY FOR THE MOMENT, AND
PLAY ONCE MORE WITH HIS NEGLECTED MUSE.



In those good days when we were young and wise,
You spake to music, you with the thoughtful eyes,
And God looked down from heaven, pleased to hear
A young man's song arise so firm and clear.
Has Fancy died? The Morning Star gone cold?
Why are you silent? Have we grown so old?
Must I alone keep playing? Will not you,
Lord of the Measures, string your lyre anew?
Lover of Greece, is this the richest store
You bring us,--withered leaves and dusty lore,
And broken vases widowed of their wine,
To brand you pedant while you stand divine?
Decorous words beseem the learned lip,
But Poets have the nicer scholarship.

In English glades they watch the Cyprian glow,
And all the Maenad melodies they know.