LITMIR.BIZ

      LX.

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,79 13.B. Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,cu But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain-majesty! What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.

      LXI.

      Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name

       Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:

       And now I view thee—'tis, alas, with shame

       That I in feeblest accents must adore.

       When I recount thy worshippers of yore

       I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

       Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,

       But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!80

      LXII.

      Happier in this than mightiest Bards have been,

       Whose Fate to distant homes confined their lot,

       Shall I unmoved behold the hallowed scene,

       Which others rave of, though they know it not?

       Though here no more Apollo haunts his Grot,

       And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,

       Some gentle Spirit still pervades the spot,

       Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the Cave,

And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.cv

      LXIII.

      Of thee hereafter.—Ev'n amidst my strain

       I turned aside to pay my homage here;

       Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;

       Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;

       And hailed thee, not perchance without a tear.

       Now to my theme—but from thy holy haunt

Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;cw Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, Nor let thy votary's hope be deemed an idle vaunt.

      LXIV.

      But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young,

See round thy giant base a brighter choir,81 Nor e'er did Delphi, when her Priestess sung The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, Behold a train more fitting to inspire The song of love, than Andalusia's maids, Nurst in the glowing lap of soft Desire: Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.