Apollo

He comes, he comes! Look where yon hill's warm crest
Burns through the breaking cloud, and as a key,
Opens the sun-bright portals of the west,
Where One in glory shines. 'Tis he, 'tis he!
Fairest of Gods where all so fair are found,
Gold-haired and ivory-limbed, and thick around
Wait Bards august like windless flames aglow,
While near him, as a wreath of eddying snow.
His thrice-three Sisters dance in circling throng,
Answering his harp with sweet voice to and fro; —
Paian Apollo, Lord of light and song.

Hark! theirs are sphere-born harmonies heard best
By the soul's ear. At their song calm and free
The tranced air is lulled in listening rest,
And Earth is aching with the melody, —
Aching to hear her pent pain half unbound
In thy clear luting, O thou Laurel-Crowned!
And Night, unmindful of her wonted woe,
Checks her dun tides in their returning flow,
Lingering amid her stars and listening long,
Till thy sun-gate soft-shuts with music slow;
Paian Apollo, Lord of light and song!

Whose strain, save thine, assures us, we are blest?
Not Hermes', nor that harper's of the sea,
Whom the charmed waves once welcomed as their guest,
Nor Orpheus', nor Amphion's minstrelsy,
Nor Pan's reed-murmur, dull bemusing sound,
Born in dark places 'neath or near the ground.
Such strains hold sway o'er thoughtless lives and low.
But thine unlock all flowerlike souls that blow
In the sky's gardens; thoughts that work no wrong;
Truth, Knowledge, Life's undreamed-of embryo;
Paian Apollo, Lord of light and song!

Yet oh, how bitter was the Fates' behest,
Ere thy full prophet-gift was formed in thee
How in poor neatherd's guise thy life confessed
That the world's king must first a servant be.
What grief was thine o'er Hyacinth in death-swound!
What wandering through the drear North's wintry bound!
What anguish, — with the Love-God for thy foe, —
To love, still doomed the love-bliss to forego!
Ah me! how oft thy sons have fared along
The same sad path and felt the same heart-throe,
Paian Apollo, Lord of light and song!

But see! from out his quiver's burning nest
What flame-fledged arrows fly! Before them flee
The Python shapes of dark ill-brooding breast.
But when thy chosen feel thy dart's decree,
They drop this coil without a pang unwound,
And pass where songs and nectared feasts abound,
Now could I taste the sleep thy shafts bestow,
Die into life and stay no more below,
But be as thou art, beautiful and strong,
Fed on the lore which Gods immortal know, —
Paian Apollo, Lord of light and song!

ENVOI .

God of the Lyre! to thee thy poets owe
All kindling sounds that through their kingdom go.
Glory to thee, to whom for aye belong
The World's wide harp and Thought's fire-shafted bow, —
Paian Apollo, Lord of light and song!
Translation: 
Language: 
Rate this poem: 

Reviews

No reviews yet.