Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits. That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever By any wolf, or pard with prying head, Until it came to some unfooted plains Where fed the herds of Pan: ay, great his gains Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, To a wide lawn, whence one could only see Edged round with dark tree tops? through which a dove Full in the middle of this pleasantness There stood a marble altar, with a tress Of flowers budded newly; and the dew Had taken fairy phantasies to strew Now while the silent workings of the dawn A troop of little children garlanded; Who gathering round the altar, seem'd to pry Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then Within a little space again it gave Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave, To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking Through copse-clad valleys,—e'er their death, o'ertaking The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. And now, as deep into the wood as we Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light Plainer and plainer showing, till at last Making directly for the woodland altar. O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue falter Of their old piety, and of their glee: Fall on my head, and presently unmew My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring, To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. Leading the way, young damsels danced along, With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd, In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Begirt with ministering looks: alway his eye |