O population beautiful and strange Haunting the curtained boundaries of youth, Children among immortals, swift of range, Light-footed, gay of glance, evasive, shy, Truth robed in fantasy, truth in untruth That all men apprehend and most pass by, --You that come crowding and inquisitive With covert laugh, quick hands, and eyes that live, Wingèd and whispering and fugitive, Wide generosities and proud beliefs, Flamboyant hopes and lovely rainbow griefs, Rare reverence, lusty audacity, Faith with bound eyes, arrogant certainty, Slim fancy with her finger to her lips, Bright-haired adventure, mother of all ships, Pale wanton nymphs, quarry of men and gods,
[Sidenote: _She addresses the assembly._]
AND dappled centaurs from the dappled woods,-- Draw near.--Here lies, that all may see him well, A naked Youth within a conchèd shell, Asleep, in nudity most beautiful. His arm is flung beneath his lovely head, He sleeps as sound as in his mortal bed; Yet him the dolphins hither bore And all the waters founted with their spouting, The river-horses galloped by the shore, And little wine-drunk sons of love ran shouting, But he lies victim to the poppy-bell.
[Sidenote: _She tells the occasion of the masque._]
NOW set I forth in briefest argument The causes of our present tournament, Saying how tender Grief and laughing Joy Strove for possession of the mortal boy, --As once upon the traveller of old The sun shone warmly and the wind blew cold,-- And ages long endured their pleasant strife Renewed with each young adolescent life, And neither triumphed, for in early years Youth freely gave to Grief his secret tears (Grief for grief’s sake, which youth to Youth endears), And sorrows of his melancholy heart, And Joy, her garlands drooping, stood apart; Till Love drew near to play his part.
[Sidenote: _She tells of Youth in Love._]
AH! then forgotten were the mournful days. Youth crowned his head with flowers and with bays; He flung the leopard-skin about his loins, And bracelets jangled at his wrists like coins, Nor was the triumph of his singing mute When at his lips the windy flute Mingled its treble with the chords of praise And melody hung scented round his ways. Proud in his beauty and his sinews’ girth He strode in strength and conquest on the earth, Or measured down the terraced olive-groves Intrepid footsteps with the centaur’s hooves. The pleasant valleys echoed with his mirth, And in the morning resonant and still His voice was heard like music on the hill.