MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

ODE TO APOLLO.

I.

Feb. 1815.

IN thy western halls of gold

When thou sittest in thy state,

Bards, that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

II.

Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,
While the trumpets sound afar:

But, what creates the most intense surprise,

His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

III.

✔ Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre :
The soul delighted on each accent dwells,—
Enraptured dwells,-not daring to respire,
The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

IV.

'Tis awful silence then again;

Expectant stand the spheres ;
Breathless the laurell'd peers,

Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease,

And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.

V.

Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,

And quickly forward spring

The Passions-a terrific band—

And each vibrates the string

That with its tyrant temper best accords,

کے

While from their Master's lips pour forth the

inspiring words.

VI.

A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee,

From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.

'Tis still! Wild warblings from the Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

VII.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Float along the pleased air,

Calling youth from idle slumbers,

Rousing them from Pleasure's lair :—
Then o'er the strings his fingers gently move,
And melt the soul to pity and to love.

VIII.

But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
And all the powers of song combine,
We listen here on earth:

The dying tones that fill the air,

And charm the ear of evening fair,

From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly

birth.

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,

Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story,

Or was I a worm-too low creeping for death? O Delphic Apollo !

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;

The eagle's feathery mane

For wrath became stiffen'd-the sound
Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under,

Muttering to be unbound.

O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?
Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

Why was I not crush'd—such a pitiful germ? O Delphic Apollo !

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in Earth

Were swelling for summer fare;

The Ocean, its neighbour,

Was at his old labour,

When, who-who did dare

To tie for a moment thy plant round his brow,

And grin and look proudly,

And blaspheme so loudly,

And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now? O Delphic Apollo !