Here you will find the Long Poem Ode to Apollo of poet James Lister Cuthbertson
"Tandem venias precamur Nube candentes humeros amictus Augur Apollo." Lord of the golden lyre Fraught with the Dorian fire, Oh! fair-haired child of Leto, come again; And if no longer smile Delphi or Delos'isle, Come from the depth of thine Aetnean glen, Where in the black ravine Thunders the foaming green Of waters writhing far from mortals'ken; Come o'er the sparkling brine, And bring thy train divine -- The sweet-voiced and immortal violet-crowned Nine. For here are richer meads, And here are goodlier steeds Than ever graced the glorious land of Greece; Here waves the yellow corn, Here is the olive born -- The gray-green gracious harbinger of peace; Here too hath taken root A tree with golden fruit, In purple clusters hangs the vine's increase, And all the earth doth wear The dry clear Attic air That lifts the soul to liberty, and frees the heart from care. Or if thy wilder mood Incline to solitude, Eternal verdure girds the lonely hills, Through the green gloom of ferns Softly the sunset burns, Cold from the granite flow the mountain rills; And there are inner shrines Made by the slumberous pines, Where the rapt heart with contemplation fills, And from wave-stricken shores Deep wistful music pours And floods the tempest-shaken forest corridors. Oh, give the gift of gold The human heart to hold With liquid glamour of the Lesbian line; With Pindar's lava glow, With Sophocles'calm flow, Or Aeschylean rapture airy fine; Or with thy music's close Thy last autumnal rose Theocritus of Sicily, divine; O Pythian Archer strong, Time cannot do thee wrong, With thee they live for ever, thy nightingales of song. We too are island-born; Oh, leave us not in scorn -- A songless people never yet was great. We, suppliants at thy feet, Await thy muses sweet Amid the laurels at thy temple gate, Crownless and voiceless yet, But on our brows is set The dim unwritten prophecy of fate, To mould from out of mud An empire with our blood, To wage eternal warfare with the fire and flood. Lord of the minstrel choir, Oh, grant our hearts'desire, To sing of truth invincible in might, Of love surpassing death That fears no fiery breath, Of ancient inborn reverence for right, Of that sea-woven spell That from Trafalgar fell And keeps the star of duty in our sight: Oh, give the sacred fire, And our weak lips inspire With laurels of thy song and lightnings of thy lyre.