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'Tis awful silence then again; Expectant stand the spheres; Breathless the laurel'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.
Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,
The Passions-a terrific band
And each vibrates the string
That with its tyrant temper best accords,
While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words.
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 Eolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.
Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Float along the pleased air,
Calling youth from idle slumbers,
Rousing them from pleasure's lair :-
But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
The dying tones that fill the air,
And charm the ear of evening fair,
From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth.
HYMN TO APOLLO.
GOD of the golden bow,
And of the golden hair,
Of the patient year,
Where where slept thine ire,
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 crawling, 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
O why didst thou pity, and for a worm
Till the thunder was mute,
Why was not I crush'd-such a pitiful germ? O Delphic Apollo !
The Pleiades were up,
Watching the silent air;
The seeds and roots in the Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
When, who-who did dare
To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, And grin and look proudly,
And blaspheme so loudly,
And live for that honor, to stoop to thee now?
O Delphic Apollo !
THINK not of it, sweet one, so ;—
Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Do not look so sad, sweet one,—
Shed one drop (and only one),
Still so pale? then dearest weep;
UNFELT, unheard, unseen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
There is for madness-cruel, or complying?
Those faery lids how sleek!
Those lips how moist!-they speak,
In ripest quiet, shadows of sweet sounds:
Into my fancy's ear
Melting a burden dear,
How "Love doth know no fullness, and no bounds."
I bend unto your laws :
This sweetest day for dalliance was born!
So, without more ado,
I'll feel my heaven anew,
For all the blushing of the hasty morn.
HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear!
Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet,
No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there
On the river, all's still, and the night's sleepy eye Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,
Charm'd to death by the drone of the humming May-fly; And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant, Has fled to her bower, well knowing I want No light in the dusk, no torch in the gloom, But my Isabel's eyes, and her lips pulp'd with bloom.
Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly-sweet!
We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink! Well done-now those lips, and a flowery seat
The old man may sleep, and the planets may wink;
The shut rose shall dream of our loves and awake Full-blown, and such warmth for the morning take, The stock-dove shall hatch his soft twin-eggs and coo, While I kiss to the melody, aching all through!