The Shepherd. Upon the lofty ledges of an alp Green as an emerald, whence into the vale Leaps the loud cataract, the shepherd lay ; And, for the Spring was come and all things, sweet, His soul was moved to music, and he played Upon his pastoral pipe a prelude rare, Accordant with the bleatings of the hill, And lowings of the valley, and far away Murmurings of the many-voicèd main. Clear-voiced he sang, for he was skilled to wed Words winged with passion unto passionate airs ; Happy the singer, but the song was sad, To pique the more him happy, and thus he sang : “ O meadow flowers, primrose and violet, Ye touch her slender ankles as she moves, But I, that worship, may not kiss her feet. “ O mountain airs, where unconfinèd float Her locks ambrosial, would that I were you, To wanton with the tangles of her hair ! “ O leaping waves, that press and lip and lave Her thousand beauties, when shall it be mine To touch and kiss and clasp her even as you ? “ But she more loves the blossom and the breeze Than lip or hand of mine, and thy cold clasp, O barren sea, than these impassioned arms.” So ran the song ; and even the while he sang Her head lay on his shoulder, and her hands Wove him the prize, a crown of meadow flowers, Primrose and violet, and with amorous touch He wooed her neck and wantoned with her hair, And marked the tell-tale colour flush and fail Thrilled with a touch, and felt the counter-thrill Throng all the passionate pulses of the blood, Nor envied in his heart the barren sea. F.