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, S SONG. 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, When summer nights the dews bestow, So when in youth the eye's dark glance The tones of love our joys enhance And when bleak storms resistless rove, Even so the words of love beguile ODE TO APOLLO. I. N thy western halls of gold, IN 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 But, what creates the most intense surprise, 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, 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 Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. VII. Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers 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, 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. 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 ! The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd, For wrath became stiffen'd-the sound Went drowsily under, O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm ? Till the thunder was mute, Why was I not crush'd-such a pitiful germ? The Pleiades were up, Watching the silent air; The seeds and roots in Earth Were swelling for summer fare; 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 ! W TO HOPE. 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; |