Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/530

514 Statues pale, and pictures heavenly fair,

Blushed and breathed like forms of earthly mould.

Happy laughter with the zephyrs mingled,

Sweet young voices murmured Love's soft words;

Lightning rays along my soul-nerves tingled,

Till it ﬂuttered like its young brood birds.

Now my soul no longer pale or pining,

With sweet mirth makes its rare palace sound;

Golden light through every shadow shining,

Shows the beauty lying waste around.

PASSING BY HELICON.

steps are turned away;

Yet my eyes linger still,

On their beloved hill,

In one long, last survey:

Gazing through tears, that multiply the view,

Their passionate adieu.

O, joy-unclouded height,

Down whose enchanted sides,

The rosy mist now glides,

How can I lose thy sight?—

How can my eyes turn where my feet must go,

Trailing their way in woe?

Gone is my strength of heart;—

The roses that I brought,

From thy dear bowers, and thought

To keep, since we must part—

Thy thornless roses, sweeter until now,

Than 'round Hymettus' brow,

The golden-vested bees,

Find sweetest sweetness in;—

Such odors dwelt within

The moist red hearts of these—

Alas, no longer give out blissful breath,

But odors rank with death.

Their dewiness is dank;

It chills my pallid arms,

Once blushing 'neath their charms;

And their green stems hang lank,

Stricken with leprosy, and fair no more,

But withered to the core.

Vain thought! to bear along

Into this torrid track,

Whence no one turneth back,

With his ﬁrst wanderer's song

Yet on his lips, thy odors and thy dews,

To deck these dwarfed yews.

No more within thy vales,

Beside thy plashing wells,

Where sweet Euterpe dwells,

With songs of nightingales,

And sounds of ﬂutes that make pale silence glow,

Shall I their rapture know.

Farewell, ye stately palms!

Clashing your cymbal tones,

In through the mystic moans

Of pines at solemn psalms;—

Ye myrtles, singing Love's inspired song.

We part, and part for long!

Farewell, majestic peaks!

Whereon my list'ning soul

Hath trembled to the roll

Of thunders which Jove wreaks,—

And calm Minerva's oracles hath heard,

All more than now unstirred!

Adieu, ye beds of bloom!

No more shall zephyr bring

To me, upon his wing,