Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/826

 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain— For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds of the river.

FREDERICK TENNYSON

1807-1898

688. The Holy Tide

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide. The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; So let the lifeless Hours be glorified With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song: And through the sunset of this purple cup They will resume the roses of their prime, And the old Dead will hear us and wake up, Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide: Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown, Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side, Red as the drops upon His thorny crown; No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth Fright off the solemn Muse,—tell sweet old tales, Sing songs as we sit brooding o'er the hearth, Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.