So played of late to every passing thought With finest change (might I but half as well So write!) the pale magician of the bow, Who brought from Italy the tales made true, Of Grecian lyres, and on his sphery hand, Loading the air with dumb expectancy, Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath. He smote--and clinging to the serious chords With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath, So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love, Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers, That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul To the first burthen of the lips of Jove. The exceeding mystery of the loveliness Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look, Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face 'Twixt his dark and flowing locks, he almost seem'd, To feeble or to melancholy eyes, One that had parted with his soul for pride, And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn. But true and earnest, all too happily That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy; For noble now he smote the exulting strings, And bade them march before his stately will; And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laid Endearment on them, and took pity sweet; And now he was all mirth, or all for sense And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose After his poetry; or else he laid His own soul prostrate at the feet of love, And with a full and trembling fervour deep, In kneeling and close-creeping urgency, Implored some mistress with hot tears; which past, And after patience had brought right of peace, He drew as if from thoughts finer than hope Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains And elegant composure; or he turn'd To heaven instead of earth, and raise a prayer So earnest-vehement, yet so lowly sad, Mighty with want and all poor human tears, That never saint, wrestling with earthly love, And in mid-age unable to get free, Tore down from heaven such pity.