Walter Savage Landor (1775–1864)

TANAGRA! think not I forget

Thy beautifully storied streets;

Be sure my memory bathes yet

In clear Thermodon, and yet greets

The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,

Whose sunny bosom swells with joy

When we accept his matted rushes

Upheav’d with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, and blushes.

A gift I promise: one I see

Which thou with transport wilt receive,

The only proper gift for thee,

Of which no mortal shall bereave

In later times thy mouldering walls,

Until the last old turret falls;

A crown, a crown from Athens won,

A crown no God can wear, beside Latona’s son.

There may be cities who refuse

To their own child the honours due,

And look ungently on the Muse;

But ever shall those cities rue

The dry, unyielding, niggard breast,

Offering no nourishment, no rest,

To that young head which soon shall rise

Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.

Sweetly where cavern’d Dirce flows

Do white-arm’d maidens chant my lay,

Flapping the while with laurel-rose

The honey-gathering tribes away;

And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues

Lisp your Corinna’s early songs;

To her with feet more graceful come

The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.

O let thy children lean aslant

Against the tender mother’s knee,

And gaze into her face, and want

To know what magic there can be

In words that urge some eyes to dance,

While others as in holy trance

Look up to heaven: be such my praise!

Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.