HYMN TO APOLLO. GOD of the golden bow, 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 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 Were swelling for summer fare; Was at its old labour, 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 honour, to stoop to thee now O Delphic Apollo ! ? LINES. UNFELT, unheard, unseen, 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 fulness, and no bounds." 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. SONG. I. HUSH, hush! tread softly! hush, hush, my dear! All the house is asleep, but we know very well That the jealous, the jealous old bald-pate may hear, Tho' you've padded his night-cap-O sweet Isabel! Tho' your feet are more light than a Faery's feet, Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet, Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush, my dear! For less than a nothing the jealous can hear. 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! We are dead if that latchet gives one little clink! Well done-now those lips, and a flowery seatThe 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! |