MEMORY, hither come,
And tune your merry notes; And, while upon the wind Your music floats,
I'll pore upon the stream
Where sighing lovers dream, And fish for fancies as they pass Within the watery glass.
I'll drink of the clear stream, And hear the linnet's song; And there I'll lie and dream The day along:
And, when night comes, I'll go To places fit for woe;
Walking along the darkened valley With silent Melancholy.
WHETHER on Ida's shady brow, Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun that now From ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient love That bards of old enjoy'd in you! The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.
THOU fair-hair'd angel of the Evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy brilliant torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and whilst thou drawest round The curtains of the sky, scatter thy dew On every flower that closes its sweet eyes In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, And then the lion glares through the dun forest. The fleeces of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
O THOU, with dewy locks, who lookest down Thro' the clear windows of the morning, turn Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills do tell each other, and the listening Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned Up to thy bright pavilion: issue forth, And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste. Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour Thy softest kisses on her bosom, and put Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee.
O THOU who passest thro' our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O summer! Oft pitched'st here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car Rode o'er the deep of heaven. Beside our springs Sit down, and in our mossy valleys; on Some bank beside a river clear, throw all Thy draperies off, and rush into the stream! Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire; Our youths are bolder than the southern swains; Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance; We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy, Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven, Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
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