PROEM DEDICATORY.

AN EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLUS.

TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

1.

O FRIEND, were you but couched on Tmolus' side, In the warm myrtles, in the golden air

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 ;

(7)

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-
Comes up to me from the illustrious earth
Of ancient Tmolus; and the very stones,
Reverberant, din the mellow air with tones.
Which the sweet air remembers; and they blend
With fainter echoes, which the mountains fling
From far oracular caverns: so, my Friend,
I cannot choose but sing!

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;