Iacchus

Should my Phyllis come, Green will be all the grove, and Jupiter Descend in flots of fertilizing rain.

The poplar doth Alcidas hold most dear, The vine Iacchus, Phoebus his own bays, And Venus fair the myrtle: therewithal Phyllis doth hazels love, and while she loves, Myrtle nor bay the hazel shall outvie.

Ash in the forest is most beautiful, Pine in the garden, poplar by the stream, Fir on the mountain height; but if more oft Thou'dst come to me, fair Lycidas, to thee Both forest ash and garden pine should bow.

These I remember, and how Thyrsis strove for victory in vain.

It was a spot which you might aptly call the Valley of Seclusion.

He was enabled to describe with the verisimilitude of perfect memory the dim sea reaches where now there came both mist and snow and it grew wondrous cold and ice masts high came floating by as green as emerald and through the drifts the snowy cliffs did send a dismal sheen nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken the ice was all between the ice was here the ice was there the ice was all around it cracked and growled and roared and howled like noises in a swound at length did cross an albatross through the fog it came as if it had been a Christian soul we hailed it in God's name it ate the food it ne'er had eat and round and round it flew the ice did split with a thunder fit the helmsman steered us through but now while the sun poured down hotter and still hotter rays upon the unaccustomed back of Coleridge he heard the hearty voice of Tom Poole summoning him to the bark-built arbor under the big elm trees a jug of egg flip and a delightful chat were awaiting him the bees were humming round in the lime tree bower of the garden and the deep vibrating voice of the poet roused to unwonted exhilaration was presently moved to declaim one of his own magnificent imitations of Schiller the visit of the gods his recitation rose like a chant in its music and sonority never believe me appear the immortals never alone scarce had I welcomed the sorrow beguiler Iacchus but in came boy Cupid the smiler lo Phoebus the glorious descends from his throne they advance they float in the Olympians all with divinities fills my terrestrial hall how shall I yield you due entertainment celestial choir me rather bright guests With your wings of upbuoyance Bear aloft to your homes, To your banquets of joyance, That the roofs of Olympus May echo my lyre! Ha! we mount; On their pinions they waft up my soul.

O give me the nectar! O fill me the bowl! "Indeed, one might easily forget all mundane matters upon a day like this," mused the poet as he became rested and refreshed.

"It is not a day for doing, Poole; for digging and forking and stooping.