The lightning of the noontide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion, HYMN OF APOLLO. THE sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtain'd with star-inwoven tapestries, How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. From the broad moonlight of the sky, Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that content surpassing wealth Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Smiling they live, and call life pleasure: To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are; I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament-for I am one Whom men love not, and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes,Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are fill'd with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare. The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill Fly me, and from the glory of my ray I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers, With their ethereal colors; the Moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine Are portions of one power, which is mine. I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile Will linger, though enjoy'd, like joy in memory yet. With which I soothe them from the western isle ? To his dwelling; Come, months, come away; Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medicine are mine, All light of art or nature;-to my song Victory and praise in their own right belong. HYMN OF PAN. FROM the forests and highlands From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb Listening to my sweet pipings. The cicale above in the lime, Liquid Peneus was flowing, In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, *This and the former poem were written at the request of a friend, to be inserted in a drama on the subject of Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before Tmolus for the prize in music. Day had awaken'd all things that be, The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: All rose to do the task He set to each, And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire Melchior and Lionel were not among those; They from the throng of men had stepp'd aside, With streams and fields and marshes bare, "What think you, as she lies in her green cove We should have led her by this time of day?" "Never mind," said Lionel, "Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see, The white clouds are driving merrily, And the stars we miss this morn will light More willingly our return to-night.List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic's long black hair, Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions.-" The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, It sweeps into the affrighted sea; The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death that lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in fuil enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine, Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean. July, 1821. THE ZUCCA.* I. SUMMER was dead and Autumn was expiring, And infant Winter laugh'd upon the land * Pumpkin. |