The music of the lyre blows away Oh! that Fate had let me see That triumph of the sweet persuasive lyre, When jealous Pan with Marsyas did conspire; When, from far Parnassus' side, Young Apollo, all the pride Of the Phrygian flutes to tame, Of that solitary lake Where Maeander's springs are born; Mounting westward, high and higher. And, when now the westering sun “Marsyas, thou art vanquishèd!” Hanged upon a branching fir But the Maenads, who were there, Left their friend, and with robes flowing In the wind, and loose dark hair O'er their polished bosoms blowing, Each her ribboned tambourine Flinging on the mountain-sod, With a lovely frightened mien From the grassy sun-warmed place But aloof, on the lake-strand, The tall crested water-reeds With long plumes and soft brown seeds, And had carved them into flutes, Sitting on a tabled stone Where the shoreward ripple breaks. Ah, poor Faun, poor Faun! ah, poor Faun! T IV HROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame All Etna heaves fiercely Not here, O Apollo! Are haunts meet for thee. But where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea, Where the moon-silvered inlets Send far their light voice On the sward at the cliff-top In the moonlight the shepherds, - What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom? What sweet-breathing presence 'Tis Apollo comes leading They are lost in the hollows! They stream up again! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train? They bathe on this mountain, Their endless abode. Whose praise do they mention? Of what is it told?. What will be forever, What was from of old. First hymn they the Father Of all things; and then, The rest of immortals, The day in his hotness, Matthew Arnold THE LOTOS-EATERS "COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.. From the inner land: far off, three mountaintops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery . drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, |