THE coining Day flushed all the orient, And more and more the purple dawnlight soard To radiant glory, as, Apollo trod, With breeze-blown locks, the long Olynlpian slopes, His harp upon his shoulders, as he came, Dashing away from him the diamond dews With his swift feet, that seemd afire with haste And joy. But the darkness on his brows Speaks but of pain and, were he not a God, Those twin pearls in his eyes were unshed tears, and those pale lips, that never yet had paled, Seem touchd as with a winter of despair. And yet the odorous breezes rang the chords Of his gold harp, as tho to waken up The heart of the high minstrel, and his tongue To their wont use-the song, the morning song, The pzan, which the sleep of Nature hears Even in its dreams and listens-and the birds Under thc thickets sparkle forth a note, And then another, till the woodlands seethe, Their green waves surging, a melodious sea, With flooded music From the marble steeps......