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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 hud and blossom,
If with mists of evening dew
Thou dost nourish these young flowers
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 green 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 Good minds and open actions take new might, Until diminished by the reign of night.
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 ?
I am the
with which the Universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine ; All harmony of instrument or verse,
All prophecy, 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,
Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
The light of the dying day,
Speeded with my sweet pipings.
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal Earth,
And Love, and Death, and Birth,
And then I changed my pipings,Singing how down the vale of Menalus
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.
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring, And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in
There grew pied windflowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth. The constellated flower that never sets ;
Faint oxlips ; tender bluebells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall flower that
wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,