Come, then, Mnemosyne! and on me wait, As if for Ion’s harp thou gav’st thine own; Recall the memories of man’s ancient state, Ere to this low orb had his form dropt down, Clothed in the cerements of his chosen fate; Oblivious here of heavenly glories flown, Lapsed from the high, the fair, the blest estate, Unknowing these, and by himself unknown: Lo! Ion, unfallen from his lordly prime, Paused in his passing flight, and, giving ear To heedless sojourners in weary time, Sang his full song of hope and lofty cheer; Aroused them from dull sleep, from grisly fear, And toward the stars their faces did uprear. IX. Why didst thou haste away, ere yet the green Enameled meadow, the sequestered dell, The blossoming orchard, leafy grove were seen In the sweet season thou hadst sung so well? Why cast this shadow o’er the vernal scene? No more its rustic charms of thee may tell And so content us with their simple mien. Was it that memory’s unrelinquished spell (Ere man had stumbled here amid the tombs,) Revived for thee that Spring’s perennial blooms, Those cloud-capped alcoves where we once did dwell? Translated wast thou in some rapturous dream? Our once familiar faces strange must seem, Whilst from thine own celestial smiles did stream! X. I tread the marble leading to his door, (Allowed the freedom of a chosen friend;) He greets me not as was his wont before, The Fates within frown on me as of yore,— Could ye not once your offices suspend? Had Atropos her severing shears forbore! Or Clotho stooped the sundered thread to mend! Yet why dear Ion’s destiny deplore? What more had envious Time himself to give? His fame had reached the ocean’s farthest shore,— Why prisoned here should Ion longer live? The questioning Sphinx declared him void of blame; For wiser answer none could ever frame; Beyond all time survives his mighty name. XI.