Monument sweet of the bliss which had first rock'd us to sleepIn her slumber she moves, and sinks, while her face is averted,
WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,
HARK! the storm of hours draws near,Loudly to the spirit-earSigns of coming day appear.Rocky gates are wildly crashing,Phoebus' wheels are onward dashing;
Golden and bright.
Ring round ring I forthwith drew,
And with arms outstretching far
For the moments that enthrall'd us,With enjoyment freighted.
And, 'mid our sorrow and bliss, even the world seem'd to die.Louder and louder they calI'd from the strand; my feet would no longer
When a Pantheon it seems round him for ever to bring.Jupiter knits his godlike brow,--her's, Juno up-lifteth;
1799.*-----PHOEBUS AND HERMES.