Let us sing, Muse, not of your treacled, honeyed lips,
from which the murmurously buzzing poet drinks,
launching a host strong some dozen-dozen ships
only to cry ‘Calypso!’ at the last and in her deep eyes sink;
nor of your distant sister, the pale Lady Memory,
who dwells in the skies above, concealed by her long,
dark and starry robe, who sees all and knows much
of the blind man she loves, the seeming-fathoms of his mysteries.
No, to the youngest of your line and least themed in song
we will bend our humble rhyme with earnest and loving touch.
See how lightly as a cloud she frolics upon and passes
the verdure of Elysium, blown as by a breeze that haunts
the highest mountains and stirs the pleasant grasses,
this our Melody, who with her playful, ever-graceful nature taunts
her sisters and the solemn tunings of their strange, uncanny thoughts
in bursts and fits of happy disruption; sometimes she feigns their manners
(favourite pastime of the youngest child), sometimes she hoards her laurels
to work into their tightened tresses, and with unfurling passion exhorts
them to forget their office, let down their hair, for once unscroll their banners,
and draws from them, if this fails, another bout of sisterly quarrels.
For oft she breaks (such is child-cunning) their sage, impassioned circle
peacocked with fanned arrays and ravishments of girly colours;
they, all-knowing, cease their chantless tracts and open up their oracle,
till she their warm and loving beams accepts with preening flutters,
and imbues them with her native touch, making solemn tresses gay again
which, trinket-trapped, swing now as once they did in the golden youth of childhood;
and softened are their magic tones which treat of her with human and with hearty laugh.
So all, unbeknown to mirthful Melody, approaches her gentle ken,
meeting the errant music of the wild but natural wood
or of such as he who sings, holding steadfast the crooked shepherd’s staff.
By the ancient farmhouse with its incense rich of oak and cedar chips
stands the winter-weathered sovereign of that line, high, oft-consulted Saturn,
in whose dread wave the fired and mutinous city of Atlantis smoking dipped
to learn the icy currents of his rage and the consequence of passion;
ah, but in her presence his aspect is changed and less of terror now,
almost softened are his eyes, as even old ocean must be when the long-labouring sun
pierces the cloudy confusion of night to join in hands with earth,
his patient child, again, and not so deep seem the furrows in his brow;
for awhile Hydra rests with Atlantis, all his troubles are done
and he can joy with his daughter his share of mirth.
So is Saturn and his noble train made mellow
and reminded of their human traces by the playful youth,
and all are linked, one to each and man to his captive fellow,
all in a line with the splendours of radiant truth:
impeccable beauty’s dress, storied tradition
and the purity of rhythm, a comb of honey rich
for the priestly poet to drink deep and gift
to the thirsting masses of his mission,
who cry out nightly for a higher pitch
to harmonise with and curb their errant drift
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