Upon the sweet creation, and not feel
Its influence on the heart? Now listen, love,
I’ll tell thee of her history: she was
Amid those lovely ones that walk the earth
Like visions all of heaven, or but made
The more divine by earthly tenderness;
One of the maiden choir, that every morn,
From lips of dew and odours, to the sun
Hymned early welcome. 'Twas one summer eve,
And the white columns and the marble floor
In the proud temple of Day's deity
Were flooded o'er with crimson, and the air
Was rich with scents; it was Clytie's turn
To watch the perfumed flame; she sat and waked
Her silver lute with one of those sweet songs
Breathed by young poets when their mistress' kiss
Has been their inspiration. Suddenly
Some other music echoed her own,
Faint, but most exquisite, like those low tones
That winds of summer sigh in the sea shells;
It died in melting cadences, but still
Clytie bent to hear it—Could it be
A dream, a strange wild dream? There stood a Youth
More beautiful than summer by her side!
His bright hair floated down like Indian gold,
A light played in his curls, and his dark eyes
Flashed splendour too intense for human gaze;
A wreath of laurel was upon the lyre
His graceful hand sustained, and by his side
The sparkling arrows hung. It was the god
That guides the sun's blue race, the god of light,
Of song, who left his native heaven for one
More precious far—the heaven of woman's love. - -
