Corydon to Thyrsis

ASK me no more! The tree less idly waits
For last year’s bird than thou for song of mine.
Yet when the evening reddens into wine
Our little stream and dies beyond the gates,
When the soft voices in the pines are come,
I feel my heart stir, but my lips are dumb.
For I have heard the master ! Wise, indeed, Had I in silence been content to hear,
Nor idly striven, when he was not near,
To draw so grand a music through my reed.
Fool that I was ! I tried to mould his song
For old Damætas, who has loved me long.
As well one leaf might voice the rustling hill,
Or glowworm hold the splendor of a star,
As my poor oat straw trill a single bar!
It merely mocked his infinite sweet skill, —
It mocked his skill, and did a woful thing
For me, because I can no longer sing.
Look ! the cool air is rolling on the plain
A thicker shadow, and clear Hesper shines
Where Mænalus is musical with pines.
This was the hour in which I heard the strain.
Wait till he comes ; then thou thyself wilt see,
And never after ask a song of me.
Samuel V. Cole.