 | Gen. Albert Pike's poems |  |
No. 6. TO APOLLŌN.
I.
Bright-haired Apollon! Thou that ever artA blessing to the world! whose generous heart
Aye overflows with love and light and life!
Thou, at whose glance all things on earth are rife
With happiness! to whom, in early Spring,
Flowers lift their heads, whether they laughing cling
To the steep mountain's side, or in the vale
Timidly nestle! Thou, to whom the pale
Chill, weary Earth looks up, when Winter flees,
With patient gaze, and the storm-shattered trees
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Poured from thy brilliant orb! Thou in whose bright,
Coruscant rays, the eagle feeds his eye
With flashing fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his haughty joy! By all the names
And the high titles that thy Godhead claims,—
Phoibos, or Clarios, golden-haired Apollo,
Cunthios, or Puthios,—cease for a time to follow
The fleeing Night, and hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!
II.
Most exquisite poet! Thou, whose great heart's swellPours itself out on mountain, lawn, and dell!
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for the Painter's use complete;
Inspired by whom the Poet's eyes perceive
Great beauty everywhere,—in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the roar
Of its resounding waters,—on the shore
Of pleasant streams,—in the dark, jagged rift
Of savage mountains, where the black clouds drift,
Flushed with swift lightning,—on the broad, dark brow
Of silent Night, that solemnly and slow
Walks up the sky. Oh, thou, whose influence
Tinges all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, and clothes with a delicate grace
All that is young and fair; while all the base
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Incarnate lordliness, hear! while our youth
With earnest yearning cry:
Answer our hymn, and come to us, Most High!
III.
In quaint disguise, with wondrous grace and fire,Often thou makest, on thy golden lyre,
Exquisite music, on smooth, sunny glades,
Where on the greensward dance the village maids,
Their hair adorned with wild-flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel; while, reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, thou smilest at these elves,
As though thou wert all human like themselves.
Sometimes thou playest in the darkening wood,
While Fauns glide forth, in dance grotesque and rude,
Flitting among the trees with awkward leap,
Like their god, Pan; and from fir-thickets deep
Come up the Satyrs, joining the mad crew,
And capering for thy pleasure. From each yew,
And beech, and oak, the wood-nymphs shyly peep,
To see the revelry; and from its sleep
The merry laughter wakes the startled wood,
And music cheers its dusk, deep solitude.
Oh, come, and let the sound
Of thy sweet lyre eddy our isle around!
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IV.
Great Seer and Prophet! Thou that teachest menThe deepest-hidden lore, and from his den
Dost pluck the Future, so that he floats by
In visible shape, apparent to the eye,
But robed with visions: thou, in whose high power
Are health and sickness: thou who oft dost shower
Great plagues on impious nations, with hot breath
Withering their souls, and raining sudden death
Like fiery mist among them; or, again,
Like the sweet breeze after a summer rain,
That thrills the earth like love, thou sendest out
Health, like a lovely child, that goes about,
With soft, white feet, among the sick and weak,
Kissing with rosy lip each poor pale cheek,
Shaking perfume from its white wings, and through
The shrivelled heart stirring the blood, anew
To fill the abandoned veins. Oh, thou, whose name
Is hymned by all, let us too dare to claim
Thy holy presence here!
Hear us, bright God, and lend a gracious ear!
V.
Hear us! Thou master of the springing bow,Who lovest in the gloomy woods to throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those that fill the universe with light.
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And lordly lions flee, timid as hares,
To hide among safe mountains! Thou, whose cry
Sounds in the autumn-woods, where whirl and fly
The brown dry leaves,—when with his riotous train
Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain
Full-armed Demeter; when upon the sea
The brine-gods blow their shells, and laughingly
The broad world rings with glee. Then thy clear voice
Stills into silence every truant noise,
Pealing with utmost sweetness on the hills,
And in the echoes of the dancing rills,
Over the sea and on the sounding plain,
And eddying air, until all voices wane
Before its influence:
Draw near, great God, before the day goes hence!
VI.
By that most fatal day, when with a cryYoung Huakinthos fell, and his dark eye
Was dimmed with blood,—when, dying, on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing great sighs; by those heart-cherished eyes
Of long-loved Huakinthos, by the sighs
That then, oh, young Apollon, thou didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,
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Thine eyes with eclipse, till the chilled earth was full
Of sad forebodings, for thy radiance dimmed;
Prayers by pale priests in many a fane were hymned
To the pale-eyed Sun; the frightened Satyrs strayed
Long in dark woods, and then to the chill glade
Came to lament that thou wast still unkind;
Artemis wept for love, and plained and pined
For light and life: by that most fearful grief,
Oh! bright Apollon, hear, and grant relief
To us who cry to thee!
And let us, ere we die, thy glory see!
1829.
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