Pagan Fancies

Blow, Father Triton, blow your wreathd horn         Cheerly, as is your wont, and let the blast     Circle our island on the breezes borne;         Blow, while the shining hours go swiftly past.     Rise, Proteus, from the cool depths rise, and be     A friend to them that breast your ancient sea.     I shall be there to greet you, for I tire         Of the dull meadows and the crawling stream.     Now with a heart uplifted and a-fire         I come to greet you and to catch the gleam     Of jocund Nereids tossing in the air     The sportive tresses of their amber hair.     High on a swelling upland I shall stand         Stung by the buffets of the wind-borne spray;     Or join the troops that sport upon the sand,         With shouts and laughter wearing out the day;     Or pace apart and listen to the roar     Of the great waves that beat the crumbling shore.     Then, when the children all are lapped in sleep         The pretty Nymphlets of the sea shall rise,     And we shall know them as they flit and creep         And peep and glance and murmur lullabies;     While the pale moon comes up beyond the hill,     And Proteus rests and Triton's horn is still.