XXIX.
On the Faun in the Tribune of the Florence Gallery.
Though no Bacchante treads with thee the lawn,1
Dance on, and clash thy cymbals, madcap Faun !2
Thy heart goes leaping through each goatish limb,3
And shakes the flowers upon thy fountain’s brim,4
While the nymphs lurk and watch, and nature’s sky5
Breathes round thy horns, and drinks thy laughing cry.6
Though dead to our new world as funeral dust,7
So live thou on, and mock their dull distrust ;8
For thou art life itself in stone, and they9
Who heed thee not are ghosts that flit by day.10