Through 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 wrapped in their blankets
 Asleep 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 proase 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.