Classic Poem

Now will I awake my lyre
Though no Pythian laurel should
Recompense my muse's fire,
Practice for a poet's good.
With my ivory plectrum I
Clear-toned melodies will make;
To my lyre's responsive sigh
Forth my voice in music break.
To the gold-tressed lord of light
Shall the Phrygian measure swell,
As a graceful swan and white
Leaving some stream-silvered dell
Soars through summer-coloured skies,
Rousing with his winnowing wings
Airs that murmur as he flies—
Phœbus, thee my famed muse sings.
Sacred are the tripod, bay,
And the laurel unto thee;
I will tell, O God of day,
Of the nymph who would not be
Leman to thee; vain, all vain,
Was thy passion, for the maid
To a virgin live was fain,
So she sought the forest shade.
And when thou pursuing keen
Sought'st to clasp her glowing charms,
She a plant became; and green
Branches filled thy eager arms.
But, my muse, no more declare
And heavenly paramour's
Love for mortal maiden fair,
Rather sing thine own amours.
(True be to the Teian lyre,)
Let thy liquid love-lays float;
Let thy measures still suspire
Many a soft voluptuous note,
That the youth who feels the spell
Of Cythera's arts divine
May my tuneful songs love well,
Songs that stir his blood like wine.