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Underneath, the leaves unsodden
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
By the glory of the sky:
Which from heaven like dew doth fall,
Noon descends, and after noon
Half the crimson light she brings
Other flowering isles must be
To some calm and blooming cove,
And the light and smell divine
HYMN OF APOLLO.
THE sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-enwoven tapestries, From the broad moonlight of the sky,
Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes,
Waken me when their Mother, the grey Dawn,
Tells them that dreams, and that the moon is gone.
Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome,
I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves [the air Are filled with my bright presence, and Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare..
The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day;
All men who do or e'en imagine ill
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might,
Until diminished by the reign of night.
I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers
With their ethereal colours; 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, Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even;
For grief that I depart they weep and frown:
What look is more delightful than the smile
With which I soothe them from the western isle?
I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse,
All prophecy, all medicines 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 wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle-bushes,
The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.
WITHIN the silent centre of the earth
Infinite depths of unknown elements
And lastly light, whose interfusion dawns
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
When the soundless earth is muffled,
To banish Even from her sky.
And thou shalt quaff it:-thou shalt hear
Sweet birds antheming the morn.
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering, While the Autumn breezes sing.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose; Everything is spoiled by use: Where's the cheek that doth not fade, Too much gazed at? Where's the maid Whose lip mature is ever new? Where's the eye, however blue, Doth not weary? Where's the face One would meet in every place? Where's the voice, however soft, One would hear so very oft? At a touch sweet pleasure melteth Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. Let, then, winged Fancy find Thee a mistress to thy mind: Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, Ere the God of Torment taught her How to frown and how to chide; With a waist and with a side White as Hebe's, when her zone Slipped its golden clasp, and down Fell her kirtle to her feet, While she held the goblet sweet, And Jove grew languid.-Break the mesh Of the Fancy's silken leash; Quickly break her prison-string, And such joys as these she'll bringLet the winged Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.
THE VOICE OF SPRING.
I COME, I come! ye have called me long. I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves, opening as I pass.
I have breathed on the south, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest bowers,
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb.
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, [light; Which tossed in the breeze with a play of There were eyes, in whose glistening laughter lay
No faint remembrance of dull decay.
There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head,
As if for a banquet all earth were spread; There were voices that rung through the sapphire sky,
And had not a sound of mortality. Are they gone? is their mirth from the mountains past?
[last. Ye have looked on Death since ye met me
I know whence the shadow comes o'er you
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow, Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace, She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, With their laughing eyes and their festal crown, [down.
They are gone from amongst you in silence
They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, [hair;
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining But I know of a land where there falls no blight, [light.
I shall find them there, with their eyes of Where Death 'midst the blooms of the morn may dwell,
I tarry no longer-farewell, farewell!