The New Castalia

Out of a cavern on Parnassus’ side, Flows Castaly; and with the flood outblown From its deep heart of ice, the mountain’s breath Tempers the ardor of the Delphian vale. Beside the stream from the black mould upsprings Narcissus, robed in snow, with ruby crowned. Long ranks of crocus, humble servitors, But clad in purple, mark his downcast face. The sward, moist from the flood, is pied with flowers, Lily and vetch, lupine and melilot, The hyacinth, cowslip, and gay marigold, While, on the border of the copse, sweet herbs, Anise and thyme, breathe incense to the bay And myrtle. Here thy home, fair Muse! How soft Thy step falls on the grass whose morning drops Bedew thy feet! The blossoms bend but break Not, and thy fingers pluck the eglantine, The privet and the bilberry; or frame A rustic whistle from a fresh-cut reed. Here is thy home, dear Muse, fed on these airs; The hills, the founts, the woods, the sky are thine! But who are these? A company of youth Upon a tesseled pavement in a court, Under a marble statue of a muse, Strew hot-house flowers before a mimic fount Drawn from a faucet in a rockery. With mutual admiration they repeat Their bric-a-brackery of rococo verse, Their versicles and icicles of song! What know ye, verse-wrights, of the Poet’s art? What noble passion or what holy heat Is stirred to frenzy when your eyes admire The peacock feathers on a frescoed wall, Or painted posies on a lady’s fan? Are these thine only bards, young age, whose eyes Are blind to Heaven and heart of man; whose blood Is water, and not wine; unskilled in notes Of liberty, and holy love of land, And man, and all things beautiful; deep skilled To burnish wit in measured feet, to wind A weary labyrinth of labored rhymes, And cipher verses on an abacus?