22 Mar 2011
For a Copy of Theocritus

O singer of the field and fold,
Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine, --
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

For thee the scent of new-turned mould,
The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, --
The beechen bowl made glad with wine ...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, --
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine: --
O singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Austin Dobson

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