Invocation

Oh quick for me the goblet fill,
From bright Castalia's sparkling rill;
Pluck the young laurel's flexile bough,
And let its foliage wreathe my brow;
And bring the lyre with sounding shell,
The four-string'd lyre I loved so well!
Lo! as I gaze, the picture flies
Of weary life's realities;
Behold the shade, the wild wood shade,
The mountain steeps, the checker'd glade;
And hoary rocks and bubbling rills,
And painted waves and distant hills.
Oh! for an hour, let me forget
How much of life is left me yet;
Recall the visions of the past,
Fair as these tints that cannot last,
That all the heavens and waters o'er
Their gorgeous, transient glories pour.
Ye pastoral scenes, by fancy wrought!
Ye pageants of the loftier thought!
Creations proud! majestic things!
Heroes, and demigods, and kings!
Return, with all of shepherds' lore,
Or old romance that pleased before!
Ye forms that are not of the earth,
Of grace, of valour, and of worth!
Ye bright abstractions, by the thought
Like the great master's pictures, wrought
To the ideal's shadowy mien,
From beauties fancied, dreamt or seen!
Ye speaking sounds, that poet's ear
Alone in nature's voice can hear!
Thou full conception, vast and wide,
Hour of the lonely minstrel's pride,
As when projection gave of old
Alchymy's visionary gold!
Return! return! oblivion bring
Of cares that vex, and thoughts that sting!
The hour of gloom is o'er my soul;
Disperse the shades, the fiends control,
As David's harp had power to do,
If sacred chronicles be true.
Oh come! by every classic spell,
By old Pieria's haunted well;
By revels on the Olmeian height
Held in the moon's religious light;
By virgin forms that wont to lave,
Permessus! in thy lucid wave!
In vain! in vain! the strain has pass'd;
The laurel leaves upon the blast
Float, wither'd, ne'er again to bloom,
The cup is drain'd — the song is dumb —
And spell and rhyme alike in vain
Would woo the genial muse again.