X TO PHŒBUS APOLLO
The sovereign driver
Of the ethereal chariot
Whips the fiery wing-footed steeds—
A Titan most beautiful.
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From the Thessalian valley,
From the Ægean shores,
The vision divine of the prophets
Hellenic saw thee arise,
The youthful god most fair;
Rising through the deserted skies,
Thy feet had wings of fire,
Thy chariot was a flame,
And around thee danced
In the sphere serene
The twenty-four virgins,
In colours tawny and bright.
Didst thou not live? Did the
Mæonian verse never reach thee?
And did Proclus in vain call thee
The Love of the universe?
The inexorable truth
With its cold shadow covered
Thee, the phantom of ages past,
Hellas' god and mine.
Now, where is the chariot and the golden,
Radiant brow of youth?
An unsightly mouldering heap
Gloomily flashing remains.
Alas, from the Ausonian lands
All the gods are flown!
In a vast solitude
Thou remainest, my Muse.
In vain, O Ionian virgin,
Thy songs and thy calling on Homer;
Truth, the sallow-faced, rises
From her deserts and threatens.
Farewell, O Titan Apollo,
Who governed the rolling year;
Alone is left to lead me
Love, the last delusion.
Let us go: in the acts and the smiles
Of my Delia still do the Graces
Reveal themselves, as of old
Cephisus beheld them.
Perish the sober age
That quenches the life in me,
That freezes in souls Phœbean
The Hellenic song!
Juvenilia.