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So when I am in a voluptuous vein,
I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose, And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain,
Till its echoes depart; then I sink to repose.
Adieu! valiant Eric! with joy thou art crown'd,
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, I too have my blisses, which richly abound
In magical powers to bless, and to soothe.
TUNE-"Julia to the Wood-Robin."
TAY, ruby-breasted warbler, stay,
And let me see thy sparkling eye; O brush not yet the pearl-strung spray,
Nor bow thy pretty head to fly.
Stay, while I tell thee, fluttering thing,
That thou of love an emblem art;
While I my thought to thee impart.
When summer nights the dews bestow,
And summer suns enrich the day,
Each opes delighted at thy lay,
So when in youth the eye's dark glance
Speaks pleasure from its circle bright,
The tones of love our joys enhance
And make superior each delight.
And when bleak storms resistless rove,
And every rural bliss destroy,
But thy sweet note --its only joy.
Even so the words of love beguile
When pleasure's tree no flower bears,
Amid the gloom of grief and tears.
ODE TO A POLLO.
N thy western halls of gold,
When thou sittest in thy state,
Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,
Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
While the trumpets sound afar:
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 Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.
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, While from their Master's lips pour forth the
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.
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.
But when Thou joinest with the Nine,
We listen here on earth :
And charm the ear of evening fair,
heavenly birth. Feb. 1815.
HYMN TO APOLLO.
OD of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,
Round 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 creeping for death?
O Delphic Apollo ! Vol. II.
The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,
The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;
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 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 !
HEN by my solitary hearth I sit,
in gloom; When no fair dreams before my “mind's eye” flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;