I.

The evening comes, the fields are still. The tinkle of the thirsty rill, Unheard all day, ascends again; Deserted is the half-mown plain, Silent the swaths; the ringing wain, The mower’s cry, the dog’s alarms, All housed within the sleeping farms. The business of the day is done, The last-left haymaker is gone. And from the thyme upon the height, And from the elder-blossom white And pale dog-roses in the hedge, And from the mint-plant in the sedge, In puffs of balm the night-air blows The perfume which the day foregoes. And on the pure horizon far, See, pulsing with the first-born star, The liquid sky above the hill! The evening comes, the fields are still.

Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds, Flickering and circling In files and in rounds, Gayly their pine-staff green Tossing in air, Loose o’er their shoulders white Showering their hair, See! the wild Mænads Break from the wood, Youth and Iacchus Maddening their blood. See! through the quiet land Rioting they pass, Fling the fresh heaps about, Trample the grass, Tear from the rifled hedge Garlands, their prize; Fill with their sports the field, Fill with their cries.

Shepherd, what ails thee, then? Shepherd, why mute? Forth with thy joyous song! Forth with thy flute! Tempts not the revel blithe? Lure not their cries? Glow not their shoulders smooth? Melt not their eyes? Is not, on cheeks like those, Lovely the flush? --_Ah! so the quiet was! So was the hush!_