Now had the Night upon her ebon wain
Passed o'er the upper sky, and dipped a wheel
In the blue sea: but Sleep, the friend of pain,
Refused my sense to seal.
Sleep stands defeated at the house of care:
And only when from purpled orient skies
Peered Phoebus forth, did tardy slumber bear
Down on my weary eyes.
Then seemed a youth with holy laurel crowned
To fill my door: a wight so wondrous rare
Was not in all the vanished ages found.
No marble half so fair!
Adown his neck, with myrtle-buds inwove
And Syrian dews, his unshorn tresses flow:
White is he as the moon in heaven above,
But rose is blent with snow.
Like that soft blush on face of virgin fair
Led to her husband; or as maidens twine
Lilies in amaranth; or Autumn's air
Tinges the apples fine.
A long, loose mantle to his ankles played,--
Such vesture did his lucent shape enfold:
His left hand bore the vocal lyre, all made
Of gleaming shell and gold.
He smote its strings with ivory instrument,
And words auspicious tuned his heavenly tongue;
Then, while his hands and voice concording blent,
These sad, sweet words he sung:
"Hail, blest of Heaven! For a poet divine
Phoebus and Bacchus and the Muses bless.
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