THE SONG OF CALLICLES
by: Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)
- HROUGH the
black, rushing smoke-bursts,
- Thick breaks the red flame.
- All Etna heaves fiercely
- Her forest-clothed frame.
-
- Not here, O Apollo!
- Are haunts meet for thee.
- But, where Helicon breaks down
- In cliff to the sea.
-
- Where the moon-silver'd inlets
- Send far their light voice
- Up the still vale of Thisbe,
- O speed, and rejoice!
-
- On the sward at the cliff-top,
- Lie strewn the white flocks;
- On the cliff-side, the pigeons
- Roost deep in the rocks.
-
- In the moonlight the shepherds,
- Soft lull'd by the rills,
- Lie wrapt in their blankets,
- Alseep on the hills.
-
- --What forms are these coming
- So white through the gloom?
- What garments out-glistening
- The gold-flower'd broom?
-
- What sweet-breathing Presence
- Out-perfumes the thyme?
- What voices enrapture
- The night's balmy prime?--
-
- 'Tis Apollo comes leading
- His choir, The Nine.
- --The Leader is fairest,
- But all are divine.
-
- They are lost in the hollows.
- They stream up again.
- What seeks on this mountain
- The glorified train?--
-
- They bathe on this mountain,
- In the spring by their road.
- Then on to Olympus,
- Their endless abode.
-
- --Whose praise do they mention:
- Of what is it told?
- What will be for ever.
- What was from of old.
-
- First hymn they the Father
- Of all things: and then,
- The rest of Immortals,
- The action of men.
-
- The Day in his hotness,
- The strife with the palm;
- The Night in her silence,
- The Stars in their calm.
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POEMS BY MATTHEW ARNOLD |
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