Classic Poem

I.

Not when old Bion's idyls sweet were sung,
Or when fine Horace scorned the vulgar herd,
And praised his frugal fare — each chosen word
Writ where full skins of rare Falernian hung
Above a table with rich garlands flung
By Roman slaves; not when the dancer stirred
The air of spring, like swaying wave or bird,
Was there true joy the tribes of men among!

These idyls and these odes hide sadness deep
And canker worms despite the shining gold
We gild them with; their lucent music flows
To noble words at times, but words of sleep,
But words of dreaming; life was not Life of old, —
It came to earth when God the Son arose!

II.

The fair façade, the carved acanthus leaf,
The sparkling sea where clearest blue meets blue,
The piled-up roses, steeped in silver dew
Upon the marble tiles, the white-robed chief
Of some great group of men seeks cool relief
Upon a galley hung with every hue
That glads the eye, while violets slave girls strew
To cithern-sounds; — this picture artists drew:
And, moved, our poets cry for the dead Pan;
Turn from the rood and sing the fluted reed, —
" Arcadia, O Arcadia, come again! "
A cry of fools — a cry unworthy man
Who was a sodden thing before the Deed
Of Love Divine turned blinded slaves to men!