(Henry Austin Dobson)






For A Copy Of Theocritus


O SINGER of the field and fold,
Theocritus! Pans pipe was thine,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

Thou sangst the simple feasts of old,
The beechen bowl made glad with wine
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou badst the rustic loves be told,
Thou badst the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine:
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold!




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