Lo! I have sought thee, Happiness, Beneath the sun, Whose golden core doth Earth caress Till day is done. Where scintillating stars appear, Breathing of thee, As quivering in the vault of air They seem to see. And where pearl-girdled proud Selene, With queenly grace, Climbeth the stairs of Heaven, serene With smiling face. And where in grove and woodland dell, So sweetly meek, Shy, drooping dew-crowned violets dwell Did I seek. There at length I thee have found In solitude, Where but echoes soft resound, Zephyr wooed. And with books of hero lore There thou art, And the chaplets which they bore, And my heart. Happiness, I would not lose Thee so dear; All may find thee if they choose, Ever near.
When great Apollon woke his lyre With breath of the celestial fire, To mortals he bequeathed the skill To invoke the goddess at their will, That when with melancholy bound Sweet solace with the Muse was found. Oh! soft the melting strains sublime Which echoed once in Grecia’s clime When pæans of the Homeric bard In marble palaces were heard. And love-lorn Lesbia’s Sappho sung The while her heart with grief was wrung, Who vainly sought with burning words And sweet seductive trembling chords Her Phidias’ love to win, nor more She tuned her lyre on Egea’s shore, Or bent with futile tears to weep, But threw herself from Leucan steep, And still ’tis said from ocean cave At eve is heard beneath the wave Her lute by unseen spirits played Where died the glorious lyric maid, And since, in every sacred shrine, Music’s sweet symphonies divine, On golden wings in darkest hour Float with a deep and vibrant power. The Muse but lifts her magic wand-- We view empyreal heights beyond-- Seraphic sounds caress the ear The Poet Wind breathes on the air. Imagination! List! ’tis thine-- A pastoral scene. The meek-eyed kine Knee-deep in herbage gently low, As loitering to their haunts they go; The velvet turf, the silver stream, The tranquil beauty of the theme; The dark-haired Rosalind in white, Like Neptune’s nymph, sweet Amphytrite. Then sudden stillness; over all The rustling leaves the raindrops fall; Darkness, with thunder pealing loud; The golden light behind the cloud; The storm is o’er, birds trill their lays, Soft-throated rhapsodies of praise-- Thus doth the Muse o’er mortals vain Cast her sweet spell in hours of pain, Exalting souls to high desire, Apollon of the Golden Lyre.