To Phœbus Apollo

The sovereign driver Of the ethereal chariot Whips the fiery wing-footed steeds— A Titan most beautiful. · · · · · · · · · · · 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.