HYMN TO APOLLO.

I.

GOD of the golden bow,

And of the golden lyre,
And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer

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 !

2.

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
Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under,
Muttering to be unbound.

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 !

3.

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in the Earth
Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,

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!

SONNET.

As from the darkening gloom a silver dove
Upsoars, and darts into the eastern light,
On pinions that nought moves but pure delight,
So fled thy soul into the realms above,

Regions of peace and everlasting love;

Where happy spirits, crown'd with circlets bright Of starry beam, and gloriously bedight, Taste the high joy none but the blest can prove. There thou or joinest the immortal quire

In melodies that even heaven fair

Fill with superior bliss, or, at desire,

Of the omnipotent Father, cleav'st the air On holy message sent-What pleasure's higher ? Wherefore does any grief our joy impair?

STANZAS TO MISS WYLIE.

I.

COME Georgiana! the rose is full blown,
The riches of Flora are lavishly strown,

The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,
The West is resplendently clothed in beams.

2.

O come! let us haste to the freshening shades,
The quaintly carv'd seats, and the opening glades;
Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,
And in the last sun-beam the sylph lightly swims.

3.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed,
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head:
And there Georgiana I'll sit at thy feet,
While my story of love I enraptur'd repeat.

4.

So fondly I'll breathe, and so softly I'll sigh,

Thou wilt think that some amorous Zephyr is nigh: Yet no as I breathe I will press thy fair knee,

And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.

5.

Ah! why dearest girl should we lose all these blisses?
That mortal's a fool who such happiness misses :

So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,
With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.

SONNET.

OH! how I love, on a fair summer's eve,
When streams of light pour down the golden west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far-far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
A fragrant wild, with Nature's beauty drest,
And there into delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
Musing on Milton's fate-on Sydney's bier-
Till their stern forms before my mind arise:
Perhaps on wing of Poesy upsoar,

Full often dropping a delicious tear,

When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.

SONNET.

To a Young Lady who sent me a Laurel Crown.

FRESH

RESH morning gusts have blown away all fear
From my glad bosom,-now from gloominess
I mount for ever—not an atom less

Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.

No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down
My will from its high purpose? Who say, "Stand,"
Or "Go?" This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars-not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

SONNET.

Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition.

THE church bells toll a melancholy round,

Calling the people to some other prayers,
Some other gloominess, more dreadful cares,
More hearkening to the sermon's horrid sound.
Surely the mind of man is closely bound

In some black spell; seeing that each one tears
Himself from fireside joys, and Lydian airs,
And converse high of those with glory crown'd.
Still, still they toll, and I should feel a damp,-
A chill as from a tomb, did I not know
That they are dying like an outburnt lamp;
That 'tis their sighing, wailing ere they go
Into oblivion;-that fresh flowers will grow,
And many glories of immortal stamp.