« PreviousContinue »
The Pipe of Pan
The cool brook runs as clear and sweet
I almost hear the rhythmic beat
On yonder rocky mountain's sides
Or is the world so changed to-day
So, though we watch, and wait, and pray,
The witching pipe of Pan?
Come, sit on yonder stone and play
As when the earth was young and gay,
O, darkened sense! O, dense, deaf ear!
Against the genii, once so dear,
And strife and greed, for many a year,
So, though he play, we cannot hear
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
THE GOLDEN SILENCE
WHAT though I sing no other song?
One echo from the mountain air,
One ocean murmur, glad and free, One sign that nothing grand or fair In all this world was lost to me.
I will not wake the sleeping lyre;
I will not strain the chords of thought; The sweetest fruit of all desire
Comes its own way, and comes unsought.
Though all the bards of earth were dead,
Her heart is in the shimmering leaf,
She speaks, in forms that cannot die.
The mountain peaks that shine afar,
Are living signs of all we are,
William Winter [1836
DAWN AND DARK
And paint the sable skies
With azure, white, and red:
Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed,
Give life to this dark world which lieth dead;
In larger locks than thou wast wont before,
And, emperor-like, decore
With diadem of pearl thy temples fair:
Chase hence the ugly night,
Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light.
This is that happy morn,
That day, long-wished day,
Of all my life so dark,
(If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn,
And fates not hope betray,)
Which, only white, deserves
A diamond for ever should it mark.
This is the morn should bring unto this grove
My Love, to hear and recompense my love.
But show thy blushing beams,
And thou two sweeter eyes
Shalt see, than those which by Peneus' streams
Did once thy heart surprise.
Nay, suns, which shine as clear
As thou, when two thou didst to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise:
If that ye, winds, would hear
A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre,
Let Zephyr only breathe,
And with her tresses play,
Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.
Beyond the hills, to shun his flaming wheels:
And everything save her, who all should grace. William Drummond [1585-1649]
HYMN OF APOLLO
THE sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie,
Fanning the busy dreams from my dim 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,
My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves 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
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray
I feed the clouds, the rainbows, and the flowers,
Are cinctured with my power as with a robe;
I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven;
For grief that I depart they weep and frown:
I am the eye with which the Universe
Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]
From "The New Day"
THE night was dark, though sometimes a faint star
The night was dark and still the dawn seemed far,
Slowly, within the East, there grew a light
Which half was starlight, and half seemed to be
and up the height
The herald of a greater. The pale white
The gray sea grew
Straight toward the utmost boundary of the East