Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/85

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THE GARDEN OF EROS.
71
Nay, when Keats died the Muses still had left  One silver voice to sing his threnody, But ah! too soon of it we were bereft  When on that riven night and stormy sea Panthea claimed her singer as her own; And slew the mouth that praised her; since which time we walk alone,
Save for that fiery heart, that morning star  Of re-arisen England, whose clear eyeSaw from our tottering throne and waste of war  The grand Greek limbs of young Democracy Rise mightily like Hesperus and bring The great Republic! him at least thy love hath taught to sing,
And he hath been with thee at Thessaly,  And seen white Atalanta fleet of foot In passionless and fierce virginity  Hunting the tuskèd boar, his honeyed luteHath pierced the cavern of the hollow hill, And Venus laughs to know one knee will bow before her still.
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