Hear the happy hymn we raise; Take the love which is Thy praise; Give content in each condition; Bend our hearts in sweet submission, And Thy trusting children prove Worthy of the Father's love! PROEM DEDICATORY. AN EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLUS. TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. I. FRIEND, were you but couched on In the warm myrtles, in the golden Of the declining day, which half lays bare, Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea; And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly Beneath the Ionian autumn's violet veil ; Were you but with me, little were the need Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme, Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime And the ripe brain but sheds abortive seed. But I am solitary, and the curse, Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth The torment and the ecstasy of verse- Of ancient Tmolus; and the very stones, II. Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be, Tending their browsing goats amid the broom, Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea, Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom, Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go Down from their summer pastures-than the twain Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top Sang, emulous, the rival strain! Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop; Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, Hark! once more, |