| |
| OUT of a cavern on Parnassus side, | |
| Flows Castaly; and with the flood outblown | |
| From its deep heart of ice, the mountains breath | |
| Tempers the ardor of the Delphian vale. | |
| Beside the stream from the black mould upsprings | 5 |
| Narcissus, robed in snow, with ruby crowned. | |
| Long ranks of crocus, humble servitors, | |
| But clad in purple, mark his downcast face. | |
| The sward, moist from the flood, is pied with flowers, | |
| Lily and vetch, lupine and melilot, | 10 |
| The hyacinth, cowslip, and gay marigold, | |
| While, on the border of the copse, sweet herbs, | |
| Anise and thyme, breathe incense to the bay | |
| And myrtle. Here thy home, fair Muse! How soft | |
| Thy step falls on the grass whose morning drops | 15 |
| Bedew thy feet! The blossoms bend but break | |
| Not, and thy fingers pluck the eglantine, | |
| The privet and the bilberry; or frame | |
| A rustic whistle from a fresh-cut reed. | |
| Here is thy home, dear Muse, fed on these airs; | 20 |
| The hills, the founts, the woods, the sky are thine! | |
| But who are these? A company of youth | |
| Upon a tesseled pavement in a court, | |
| Under a marble statue of a muse, | |
| Strew hot-house flowers before a mimic fount | 25 |
| Drawn from a faucet in a rockery. | |
| With mutual admiration they repeat | |
| Their bric-a-brackery of rococo verse, | |
| Their versicles and icicles of song! | |
| What know ye, verse-wrights, of the Poets art? | 30 |
| What noble passion or what holy heat | |
| Is stirred to frenzy when your eyes admire | |
| The peacock feathers on a frescoed wall, | |
| Or painted posies on a ladys fan? | |
| Are these thine only bards, young age, whose eyes | 35 |
| Are blind to Heaven and heart of man; whose blood | |
| Is water, and not wine; unskilled in notes | |
| Of liberty, and holy love of land, | |
| And man, and all things beautiful; deep skilled | |
| To burnish wit in measured feet, to wind | 40 |
| A weary labyrinth of labored rhymes, | |
| And cipher verses on an abacus? | |
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