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To Richard Henry Stoddard
I. O FRIEND, were you but crouched 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; | 5 |
| And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, | |
| And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly | |
| Beneath the Ionian autumn’s violet veil;— | |
| Were you but with me, little were the need | |
| Of this imperfect artifice of rhyme, | 10 |
| 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,— | 15 |
| 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 | 20 |
| From far oracular caverns: so, my friend, | |
| I cannot choose but sing! | |
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II. Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be, | |
| Tending their browsing goats amid the broom, | |
| Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea, | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
| Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop; | |
| Great Pan ascended from the vales below. | |
| I see them sitting in the silent glow; | |
| I hear the alternating measures flow | |
| From pipe and golden lyre;—the melody | 35 |
| Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls, | |
| Or when, from out the chambers of the sea, | |
| Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls | |
| A pathway for the sun; then, following swift, | |
| The dædal harmonies of awful caves | 40 |
| Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift | |
| Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves, | |
| With many a lighter strain, that dances o’er | |
| The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain | |
| To follow; | 45 |
| Hark! once more, | |
| How floats the God’s exultant strain | |
| In answer to Apollo! | |
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| “The wind in the reeds and the rushes, | |
| The bees on the bells of thyme, | 50 |
| The birds on the myrtle bushes, | |
| The cicàle above in the lime, | |
| And the lizards below in the grass | |
| Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was, | |
| Listening to my sweet pipings.” * * * * * | 55 |
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