HYMN TO APOLLO. I. GOD of the golden bow, And of the golden lyre, 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 eagle's feathery mane For wrath became stiffen'd-the sound Went drowsily under, O why didst thou pity, and for a worm 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 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? SONNET. As from the darkening gloom a silver dove 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 air is all softness, and crystal the streams, 2. O come! let us haste to the freshening shades, 3. And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed, 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? So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand, SONNET. OH! how I love, on a fair summer's eve, 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 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 By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear. Lo! who dares say, "Do this?" Who dares call down SONNET. Written in Disgust of Vulgar Superstition. THE church bells toll a melancholy round, Calling the people to some other prayers, In some black spell; seeing that each one tears |