IV. '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. v. 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. 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 Eolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. VII. Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing them from pleasure's lair :-- VIII. But when Thou joinest with the Nine, 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. Feb. 1815. HYMN TO APOLLO. GOD of the golden bow, And of the golden lyre, 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? The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd, The eagle's feathery mane For wrath became stiffen'd-the sound Went drowsily under, O why didst thou pity, and for a worm Why touch thy soft lute 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 Was at its old labor, To tie, like a madman, thy plant round his brow, And blaspheme so loudly, And live for that honor, to stoop to thee now? UNFELT, unheard, unseen, Who-who could tell how much Those faery lids how sleek! Melting a burden dear, How "Love doth know no fullness, and no bounds." True!-tender monitors! 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. 1817. SONG. I. HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear! Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet, II. 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. III. Lift the latch! ah gently! ah tenderly—sweet! |