[1]
Haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste--haste!
So near the track of the stars are we,
That oft on night's pale beams
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ear, like dreams.
Then haste to that holy Isle with me, etc.
The Moon too brings her world so nigh,
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
Then, haste, etc.
To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres[2]
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires,
We give him back in song.
Then, haste, etc.
From us descends the maid who brings
To Delos gifts divine;
And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings
To glitter on Delphi's shrine.
Then haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste--haste!
[1] On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch shell placed in
the hands of Boreas.--See _Stuart's Antiquities_. "The north wind," says
Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."
[2] Hecataeus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to
Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.
THOU BIDST ME SING.
Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
In other days ere joy had left this brow;
But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,
How different feels the heart that breathes them now!
The rose thou wearst to-night is still the same
We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
Like life o'er all its leaves, hath past away.
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