Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar :
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.

ODE TO APOLLO

IN thy western halls of gold
When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards, that erst sublimely told
Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.

Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendor warms,
While the trumpets sound afar :

But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.

Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells, Enraptur'd dwells, — not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

"T is 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.

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.

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 Æolian lyre Enchantment softly breathe, and tremblingly expire.

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.

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.

HYMN TO APOLLO

Gop of the golden bow,
And of the golden lyre,

And of the golden hair,
And of the golden fire,
Charioteer

Of the patient year,
Where where slept thine ire,

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,

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 for a worm
Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

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

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in the Earth

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

Was at its old labour,

When, who who did dare

To tie, like a madman, 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 ?

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO SENT ME A LAUREL CROWN

I mount for ever - not an atom less
Than the proud laurel shall content my bier.
No! by the eternal stars! or why sit here

In the Sun's eye, and 'gainst my temples press
Apollo's very leaves, woven to bless

By thy white fingers and thy spirit clear.

Lo! who dares say, 'Do this?' Who dares call down

My will from its high purpose? Who say,
Stand,'

Or 'Go?' This mighty moment I would frown
On abject Cæsars- not the stoutest band
Of mailed heroes should tear off my crown:
Yet would I kneel and kiss thy gentle hand!

SONNET

How many bards gild the lapses of time!
A few of them have ever been the food
Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood
Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime:
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme,
These will in throngs before my mind intrude:
But no confusion, no disturbance rude

Do they occasion; 't is a pleasing chime.
So the unnumber'd sounds that evening store;
The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves -
The voice of waters- the great bell that heaves
With solemn sound, and thousand others more,
That distance of recognizance bereaves,

Make pleasing music, and not wild uproar.

SONNET

KEEN, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;

The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimful of the friendliness

That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

SPENSERIAN STANZA

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF CANTO II. BOOK V. OF THE FAERIE QUEENE'

IN after-time, a sage of mickle lore
Yclep'd Typographus, the Giant took,
And did refit his limbs as heretofore,

And made him read in many a learned book,
And into many a lively legend look;
Thereby in goodly themes so training him,
That all his brutishness he quite forsook,
When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim,

The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim.

ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR

GIVE me a golden pen, and let me lean

On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear and far
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,

Or hand of hymning angel, when 't is seen