Lo. where he beams, ambrosial, yellow curled,
The God of Day, with unapparent might,
Checking his fiery steeds, that plunge and bite
As if from heaven his Chariot should be hurled.
And on the Clouds a many-tinted band
Of Hours dance round their Leader, grave or gay
As glowing near or in his wake they sway;
While poised above the sun-awakened land
The Morning Star, fair herald of the day,
Hovers, a Cupid, back-blown torch in hand.
SEA-MUSIC.
The voices of the whispering woods are still;
No truant brook runs chattering to the stream;
Like heaven's own likeness mirrored in a dream.
The sea coils round each jutting rock and hill.
Nay, hark! what faint aerial harpings thrill
The lonely bay; vrhat choral voices seem
To float around and melt like rolling steam
On air as quiet as a windless mill.
No holy chant in hushei cathedral naves
Had ever such unearthly harmony.
As these mysterious chords ineffable
That peal from organ-pipes of fluted caves.
Reverberate in hollow mountan shell,
The music of the everlasting sea.
