 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
41
To Rossini.
The ghostly wind of Weber's northern pines,With its luxurious dread ne'er haunted thee;
Maddening the heart like bright Circæan wines,
Thy siren songs float o'er the sunlit sea;
Thy faunlike childhood caught a pagan glee
From mellow clusters, bending trellised vines,
In some warm Umbrian vale where sunset shines
On vintage dance and jocund minstrelsy.
If life were all a bacchanal procession
Of sensuous joys, thou wert its great high priest,
Old Pan of music, who, half god, half beast,
On the shy nymph of tears mad'st bold aggression;
Yet in thy bowers we sit at endless feast,
And of thy sumptuous realm take rich possession.
| Sounds and Sweet Airs | |