Classic Poem

Throned upon golden fires, and queen of night,
Queen of enamoured night! whose mortal heart
Draws thine, Immortal? Not on Latmus height
Thou burnest: thence no shepherds now depart
Homeward at sundown under the flushed pines,
All, save one solitary left for thee:
For whom hast thou enriched thy lily light
With redness of dark roses? Still thou art
That victress, in whose deity combines
With swift love, swifter scorn: so thou art free.

Throned upon crystal air, thou wilt return
With solemn light upon the morrow's dew:
No more thine heart, an heart of snow, will burn;
Nor thou thy passionate employ renew.
Nay! thou among the stars thy tranquil way
Wilt take, with steps of silence and of calm:
No Latmus among mountains wilt discern,
No sad Endymion from the shepherd crew:
And, slowly passing onward to the day,
Thou wilt seem one, whom vestal thoughts embalm.

So thou art free. So art thou hard to love:
Whether thou flamest red from out the deep,
Or dost in virginal procession move,
Blessing the lands with universal sleep.
Yet, splendour of the night! be thy lone will
Done thee, so thou preserve thy fair estate!
Proud power of calm! whose majesties reprove
The souls that wanton, and the hearts that weep.
We hail thee, gracious or disdainful, still:
And this thy full uprising celebrate.