Page:National Lyrics.pdf/138

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Yet a spirit not its own O'er the greenwood now is thrown! Something of an under-note Thro' its music seems to float, Something of a stillness grey Creeps across the laughing day: Something, dimly from those old words felt, —"I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

Was some gentle kindred maid In that grave with dirges laid? Some fair creature, with the tone Of whose voice a joy is gone, Leaving melody and mirth Poorer on this alter'd earth? Is it thus? that so they stand, Dropping flowers from every hand? Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store Of red wild-fruit prized no more?