Apollo Musagetes

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts,

    Thick breaks the red flame;

    All Etna heaves fiercely

    Her forest-clothed frame.

    Not here, O Apollo!

    Are haunts meet for thee.

    But, where Helicon breaks down

    In cliff to the sea,

    Where the moon-silver'd inlets

   Send far their light voice

   Up the still vale of Thisbe,

   O speed, and rejoice!

   On the sward at the cliff-top

   Lie strewn the white flocks,

   On the cliff-side the pigeons

   Roost deep in the rocks.

   In the moonlight the shepherds,

   Soft lull'd by the rills,

   Lie wrapped in their blankets

   Asleep on the hills.

   —What forms are these coming

   So white through the gloom?

   What garments out-glistening

   The gold-flower'd broom?

   What sweet-breathing presence

   Out-perfumes the thyme?

   What voices enrapture

   The night's balmy prime?

   'Tis Apollo comes leading

   His choir, the Nine.

   —The leader is fairest,

   But all are divine.

   They are lost in the hollows!

   They stream up again!

   What seeks on this mountain

   The glorified train?—

   They bathe on this mountain,

   In the spring by their road;

   Then on to Olympus,

   Their endless abode.

   —Whose prose do they mention?

   Of what is it told?—

   What will be for ever;

   What was from of old.

   First hymn they the Father

   Of all things; and then,

   The rest of immortals,

   The action of men.

   The day in his hotness,

   The strife with the palm;

   The night in her silence,

   The stars in their calm.