To Apollo

Bright-hair'd Apollo! — thou who ever art
A blessing to the world — whose mighty heart
Forever pours out love, and light, and life:
Thou, at whose glance all things of earth are rife
With happiness; to whom, in early spring,
Bright flowers raise up their heads, where'er they cling
On the steep mountain-side, or in the vale
Are nestled calmly. Thou at whom the pale
And weary earth looks up, when winter flees,
With patient gaze: thou for whom wind-stripp'd trees
Put on fresh leaves, and drink deep of the light
That glitters in thine eye: thou in whose bright
And hottest rays the eagle fills his eye
With quenchless fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his joy to thee: by all the names
That thou dost bear — whether thy godhead claims
Phoebus, or Sol, or golden-hair'd Apollo,
Cynthian or Pythian — if thou dost follow
The fleeing night, O, hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!
O, most high poet! thou whose great heart's swell
Pours itself out on mountain and deep dell:
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for a poet's theme most meet:
Thou who dost make the poet's eye perceive
Great beauty everywhere — in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the war
Of its unnumber'd waters; on the shore
Of pleasant streams, upon the jagged clifT
Of savage mountain, where the black clouds drift
Full of strange lightning; or upon the brow
Of silent night, that solemnly and slow
Comes on the earth; O, thou! whose influence
Touches all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, tinges with thine own heart
Each thing thou meetest; thou who ever art
Living in beauty — nay, who art, in truth,
Beauty imbodied — hear, while all our youth
With earnest calling cry!
Answer our hymn, and come to us, most high!
O, thou! who strikest oft thy golden lyre
In strange disguise, and with a wondrous fire
Sweepest its strings upon the sunny glade,
While dances to thee many a village maid,
Decking her hair with wild flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel, while, reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, with smiles at thy good heart,
A s though thou wert of this our world a part,
Thou lookest on them in the darkening wood,
While fauns come forth, and, with their dances rude
Flit round among the trees with merry leap,
Like their god, Pan; and from fir thickets deep
Come up the satyrs, joining the wild crew,
And capering for thy pleasure: from each yew,
And oak, and beech, the wood-nymphs oft peep out
To see the revelry, while merry shout
And noisy laughter rings about the wood,
And thy lyre cheers the darken'd solitude —
O, come! while we do sound
Our flutes and pleasant-pealing lyres around!
O, most high prophet! — thou that showest men
Deep-hidden knowledge: thou that from its den
Bringest futurity, that it comes by
In visible shape, passing before the eye
Shrouded in visions: thou in whose high power
Are health and sickness: thou who oft dost shower
Great plagues upon the nations, with hot breath
Scorching away their souls, and sending death
Like fiery mist amid them; or again,
Like the sweet breeze that comes with summer rain,
Touching the soul with joy, thou sendest out
Bright health among the people, who about
With dewy feet and fanning wings doth step,
And touch each poor, pale cheek with startling lip,
Filling it with rich blood, that leaps anew
Out from the shrivell'd heart, and courses through
The long-forsaken veins! — O, thou, whose name
Is sung by all, let us, too, dare to claim
Thy holy presence here!
Hear us, bright god, and come in beauty near!
O, thou, the lover of the springing bow!
Who ever in the gloomy woods dost throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those thine arrows that with midday light
Thou proudly pointest; thou from whom grim bears
And lordly lions flee, with strange, wild fears,
And hide among the mountains: thou whose cry
Sounds often in the woods, where whirl and fly
The time-worn leaves — when, with a merry train,
Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain
The full-arm'd Cekes — when upon the sea
The brine-gods sound their horns, and merrily
The whole earth rings with pleasure: then thy voice
Stills into silence every stirring noise,
With utmost sweetness pealing on the hills,
And in the echo of the dancing rills,
And o'er the sea, and on the busy plain,
And on the air, until all voices wane
Before its influence —
O, come, great god, be ever our defence!
By that most gloomy day, when with a cry
Young Hyacinth fell down, and his dark eye
Was fill'd with dimming blood — when on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing deep sighs; by those heart-cherish'd eyes
Of long-loved Hyacinth — by all the sighs
That thou, O, young Apollo, then didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,
Weeping at thy great soul, and making dull
Thy ever-quenchless eye, till men were full
Of strange forebodings for thy lustre dimm'd,
And many a chant in many a fane was hymn'd
Unto the pale-eyed sun; the satyrs stay'd
Long time in the dull woods, then on the glade
They came and look'd for thee; and all in vain
Poor Dian sought thy love, and did complain
For want of light and life; — by all thy grief,
O, bright Apollo! hear, and give relief
To us who cry to thee —
O, come, and let us- now thy glory see!