Ii

Thou hast sung of Helicon: How the sister Muses won From the nine Pierides Empire o'er the harmonies. Thou hast sung of Tempe's maid, And the sudden laurel's aid. Thou hast sung of many loves Of the gods that haunt the groves Where the marble altar stands Rose-heaped by the balmy hands Of Romance and Beauty; where, High upon the temple stair, Priest-like, bay-crowned, white of hair, Old Tradition, looking up, Pours libation from his cup. Thou hast sung, all sweet of tongue, As once wild Amphion sung, Songs,--Parnassian rocks,--that swung Each in its lyric niche, and massed Such mural heights of song and vast, Melodious walls of poesy, That Time himself shall not outlast, Enduring as eternity.