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,

And quickly forward spring

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 Eolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire>

VII.

Next thy Tasso's ardent numbers
Float along the pleased air,

Calling youth from idle slumbers,

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,
And all the powers of song combine,
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.

Feb. 1815.

HYMN TO APOLLO.

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

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,
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 beg for a worm?
Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

What was I not crush'd-such a pitiful germ?
O Delphic Apollo !

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in Earth

Were swelling for summer fare;
The Ocean, its neighbour,

Was at his old labour,

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 !

ON

THINK not of it, sweet one, so ;

Give it not a tear;

Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go
Any-any where.

X

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 fullness, nor no bounds."

True!-tender monitors!

I bend unto your laws :

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.

1817.

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.