Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude, As bees gorge full their cells. And by the feud 'Twixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, Eterne Apollo! that thy Sister fair Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. When thy gold breath is misting in the west, As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din And yet thy benediction passeth not The monstrous sea is thine—the myriad sea! Cynthia! where art thou now? What far abode For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost bewail His tears who weeps for thee! Where dost thou sigh? Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; Thou madest Pluto bear thin element ; And now, O winged Chieftain! thou hast sent On gold sand impearl'd With lily shells, and pebbles milky white, Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare Far had he roam'd, With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates large |