Song to Apollo, from Œdipus

Phœbus, God belov’d by men;

At thy dawn, ev’ry Beast is rouz’d in his Den;

At thy Setting, all the Birds of thy absence complain,

And we dye, all dye till the morning comes again,

Phœbus, God belov’d by men!

Idol of the Eastern Kings,

Awful as the God who flings

His Thunder round, and the Lightning wings;

God of Songs, and Orphean Strings,

Who to this mortal bosom brings

All harmonious heav’nly Things!

Thy drouzie Prophet to revive,

Ten thousand thousand forms before him drive;

With Chariots and Horses all o’ Fire awake him,

Convulsions, and Furies, and Prophesies shake him:

Let him tell it in Groans, tho’ he bend with the load,

Tho’ he burst with the weight of the terrible God.