Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/102

 And far away the moil, the shout, the groan,

As Hector shielded off the spear and Ajax hurled the stone;

Of wingèd Perseus with his flawless sword

Cleaving the snaky tresses of the witch,

And all those tales imperishably stored

In little Grecian urns, freightage more rich

Than any gaudy galleon of Spain

Bare from the Indies ever! these at least bring back again,

For well I know they are not dead at all,

The ancient Gods of Grecian poesy,

They are asleep, and when they hear thee call

Will wake and think 't is very Thessaly,

This Thames the Daulian waters, this cool glade

The yellow-irised mead where once young Itys laughed and played.

If it was thou dear jasmine-cradled bird

Who from the leafy stillness of thy throne

Sang to the wondrous boy, until he heard

The horn of Atalanta faintly blown

Across the Cumnor hills, and wandering

Through Bagley wood at evening found the Attic poets' spring,— 88