 | Poems |  |
63
The New Apollo
Oh! credit not, though Academes have taught,That poesy is manacled to speak
Through those old masks wherein the buskined Greek
Poured his sea-sounding dithyrambics, fraught
With rage melodious and majestic thought,
Or that no other chrism a bard may seek
Than lustral dews on Helicon's high peak
Or rare Castalian sprinklings, hardly caught.
Soon shall the holier song, that Olivet
Chants to her sister hill of Calvary,
Place echo's fingers on a finer fret;
Whose many-pinioned utterance, ranging free,
Sion shall welcome first, with holy glee,
When poet and the day are duly met.
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