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Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers Sit on their pearlèd thrones;
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods, Over heaps of unvalued stones ;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night :
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword-fish dark, Under the ocean foam,
And up through. the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted, They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
At noontide they flow
And the meadows of asphodel ;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
SONG OF PROSERPINE,
WHILE GATHERING FLOWERS ON THE PLAIN OF
SACRED Goddess, Mother Earth,
Thou from whose immortal bosom,
Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,
If with mists of evening dew
flowers Till they grow, in scent and hue,
Fairest children of the hours,
HYMN OF APOLLO.
THE sleepless Hours who watch me, as I lie
Curtained with star-enwoven tapestries
eyes, Waken me when their mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone.
Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome,
I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;
My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the
Are filled with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the greep earth to my embraces bare.
The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day ; All men who do or even imagine ill
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray
I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers,
With their ethereal colours ; the Moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe ;
Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine Are portions of one power, which is mine.
I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven,
Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even ;
For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle ?
with which the Universe Beholds iteelf and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse,
All prophery, all medicine are mine,
HYMN OF PAN.
FROM the forests and highlands
We come, we come ;
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded with my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
of the dædal Earth,
And Love, and Death, and Birth.
And then I changed my pipings, Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed : Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed :
* This and the former poem were written at the request of a friend, to be inserted in a drama on the subject of Midas. Apollo and Pan contended before Tmolus for the prize in music.