To Mercury

O, winged messenger! if thy light feet
Are in the star-paved halls where high gods meet,
Where the rich nectar thou dost take and sip
At idly-pleasant leisure, while thy lip
Utters rich eloquence, until thy foe,
Juno herself, doth her long hate forego,
And hangs upon thine accents; Venus smiles,
And aims her looks at thee with winning wiles;
And wise Minerva's cup stands idly by
The while thou speakest Whether up on high
Thou wing'st thy way — or dost but now unfurl
Thy pinions like the eagle, while a whirl
Of air takes place about thee — if thy wings
Are over the broad sea, where Afric flings
His hot breath on the waters; by the shore
Of Araby the blest, or in the roar
Of crashing northern ice — O, turn, and urge
Thy winged course to us! Leave the rough surge,
Or icy mountain-height, or city proud,
Or haughty temple, or dim wood down bow'd
With weaken'd age,
And come to us, thou young and mighty sage!
Thou who invisibly dost ever stand
Nea. each high orator; and, hand in hand
With the gold-robed Apollo, touch the tongue
Of every poet; on whom men have hung
With strange enchantment, when in dark disguise
Thou hast descended from cloud-curtain'd skies,
And lifted up thy voice, to teach bold men
Thy world-arousing art: O, thou! that, when
The ocean was untrack'd, didst teach them send
Great ships upon it: thou who dost extend
In storm a calm protection to the hopes
Of the fair merchant: thou who on the slopes
Of Mount Cyllene first madest sound the lyre
And many-toned harp with childish fj;e,
And thine own beauty sounding in the caves
A strange, new tune, unlike the ruder staves
That Pan had utter'd — while each wondering nymph
Came out from tree and mountain, and pure lymph
Of mountain-stream, to drink each rolling note
That o'er the listening woods did run and float
With fine, clear tone,
Like silver trumpets o'er still waters blown:
O, matchless artist! thou of wondrous skill,
Who didst in ages past the wide earth fill
With every usefulness: thou who dost teach
Quick-witted thieves the miser's gold to reach,
And rob him of his sleep for many a night,
Getting thee curses: O, mischievous sprite!
Thou Rogue-god Mercury! ever glad to cheat
All gods and men; with mute and noiseless feet
Going in search of mischief; now to steal
The fiery spear of Mahs, now clog the wheel
Of bright Apollo's car, that it may crawl
Most slowly upward: thou whom wrestlers call,
Whether they strive upon the level green
At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen
Of ancient oak, or at the sacred games
In fierce contest: thou whom each then names
In half-thought prayer, when the quick breath is drawn
For the last struggle: thou whom on the lawn
The victor praises, making unto thee
Offering for his proud honours — let us be
Under thy care:
O, winged messenger, hear, hear our prayer!