Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
In lucent words my
darkling verses dight,
And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy
All while the jocund hours in thy train
Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
And when thou yields
to night thy wide domain,
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay
With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
sense; yet in his rude affray,
(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
And love of Folly needs none other's
Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
sit in council with his modern peers,
And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.
And thou, Mercurius, that with wingèd brow
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,
And thro' Heav'n's halls
thy airy flight dost throw,
Entering with holy feet to where on high
Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
laden with eternal fate, dost go
Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
And o'er the surface of the
silent deep dost fly:
If thou arrivest at the sandy shore
Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
Thy golden rod, thrown
on the dusty floor,
Can charm to harmony with potent spell.
Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel
and Hate that thirst for human gore;
And cause in sweet society to dwell
Vile savage minds that lurk in
O Mercury, assist my lab'ring sense
That round the circle of the world would fly,
As the wing'd eagle scorns
the tow'ry fence
Of Alpine hills round his high aëry,
And searches thro' the corners of the sky,
Sports in the
clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
And see the wingèd lightnings as they fly;
Then, bosom'd in an amber
Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.
And thou, O warrior maid invincible,
Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,
Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,
thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,
In solemn gloom of branches interwove?
Or bear'st thy AEgis
o'er the burning field,
Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?
Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld
weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?
Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?