 | The poetical works of Bayard Taylor |  |
II
Unto mine eye, less plain the shepherds be,
Tending their browsing goats amid the broom,
Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea,
Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom,
Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go
Down from their summer pastures—than the twain
Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top
Sang, emulous, the rival strain!
Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop;
Great Pan ascended from the vales below.
I see them sitting in the silent glow;
I hear the alternating measures flow
From pipe and golden lyre;—the melody
Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls,
Or when, from out the chambers of the sea,
Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls
A pathway for the sun; then, following swift,
The dædal harmonies of awful caves
Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift
Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves,
With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er
The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain
To follow:
Hark! once more,
How floats the God's exultant strain
In answer to Apollo!
Tending their browsing goats amid the broom,
Or the slow camels, travelling towards the sea,
Laden with bales from Baghdad's gaudy loom,
Or yon nomadic Turcomans, that go
Down from their summer pastures—than the twain
Immortals, who on Tmolus' thymy top
Sang, emulous, the rival strain!
Down the charmed air did light Apollo drop;
Great Pan ascended from the vales below.
I see them sitting in the silent glow;
I hear the alternating measures flow
52
Heard by the Gods between their nectar bowls,
Or when, from out the chambers of the sea,
Comes the triumphant Morning, and unrolls
A pathway for the sun; then, following swift,
The dædal harmonies of awful caves
Cleft in the hills, and forests that uplift
Their sea-like boom, in answer to the waves,
With many a lighter strain, that dances o'er
The wedded reeds, till Echo strives in vain
To follow:
Hark! once more,
How floats the God's exultant strain
In answer to Apollo!
“The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicàle above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass
Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.”
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicàle above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass
Are as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
Listening to my sweet pipings.”
| The poetical works of Bayard Taylor | |