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.
