HYMN TO APOLLO.

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!

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 !

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 !

?

LINES.

UNFELT, unheard, unseen,
I've left my little queen,
Her languid arms in silver slumber lying:
Ah! through their nestling touch,
Who-who could tell how much
There is for madness-cruel, or complying?

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!