I sang a song of olden times,
Sitting upon our sacred hill—
Sang it to feel my bosom thrill
To the sweet pathos of its rhymes.
I trilled the music o'er and o'er,
And happy, gazed upon the scene,
Thinking that there had never been
So blue a sea, so fair a shore.
A vague half dream was in my mind;
I hardly saw how sat the sun;
I noted not the day was gone
The rosy western hills behind.
'Till, soft as if Apollo blew
For me the sweet Thessalian flute,
I heard a sound which made me mute,
And more than singing thrilled me through.
Thy step—well known and well beloved!
No more I dreamed on shore or sea;
I thought of, saw but only thee,
Nor spoke, but blushed to be so moved.