  In Arcady, the happy swain, Who wandered through the woods and meadows, Oft turned his head and oft was fain To start or smile at shifting shadows. Sometimes, within a verdant brake, He saw a wood-nymph’s graceful form Gleam white, and felt her beauty make His heart beat fast, his cheek grow warm. Sometimes while loitering by a brook, Whose ripples dreamy music made, He spied in some sequestered nook A naiad, on the marge who played, Or when the breeze the leafage stirred On drowsy summer afternoons, Sometimes afar he thought he heard The satyrs pipe their merry tunes. But Jupiter no longer wooes Antiope, nor Venus’ lips Tremble as she Adonis sues, And he from her embracement slips. No longer nymph nor naiad now, Nor faun nor satyr haunts the wood, Gone is Diana with her bow,— The woodland is a solitude. Are nymph and naiad gone indeed, And is there now no Arcady? A fairy choir in wood and mead In gentle accents answer, “Nay.” And those who leave the world awhile With nature’s spirit to commune, May still see nymphs in woodland aisle And naiads bathe at sunny noon. Beside the murmurous streams that wind Beneath the tangled foliage-meshes Some sleeping naiad we may find, With charms the inmost soul deems precious. And deep within the tawny shade Of pathless forests we may meet Some true wood-nymph, who, unafraid, Receives us in her cool retreat. At every step through sunny wood, Beneath our feet the wild flowers spring, Nymphs of that sylvan solitude That us to love their beauty bring; And still we follow, as of old The swain pursued the fleeting shape, For once their graces we behold None can their mystic lure escape. At every step beside the stream, Some nodding blossom beckons still. We see its slender figure gleam Chastely beside the crystal rill. Or looks us fearless in the face,— Ah, no, the naiads are not fled, The stream is still their dwelling-place. Earths turmoil has but dulled our ears, Its dust has but obscured our sight. The pipes of Pan whoever hears Will see as well the woodland sprite. The revels of the leaves and wind, The sudden glimpse of blossoming flowers, These are his prize who leaves behind The world, and strays through Nature’s bowers. Oh, had I in Arcadia dwelt I would have watched for every gleam Of shoulder, as some naiad svelt Clove the clear crystal of the stream; I would have followed in pursuit Of artful nymph through tangled brakes, And heard with joy the satyr’s flute, Whose melody soft echo wakes. And so, from earliest days of spring, When the first wild flower lifts its head, Till autumn, when the breezes fling Broadcast the dying leaves and dead, Through sensuous summer’s golden hours I roam the vast, Canadian woods, Seeking the wild Canadian flowers, True nymphs of sylvan solitudes. |
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