The Wanderer's Storm-Song.

He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,     Feels no dread within his heart     At the tempest or the rain.     He whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,     Will to the rain-clouds,     Will to the hailstorm,     Sing in reply     As the lark sings,     Oh thou on high!     Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,     Thou wilt raise above the mud-track     With thy fiery pinions.     He will wander,     As, with flowery feet,     Over Deucalion's dark flood,     Python-slaying, light, glorious,     Pythius Apollo.     Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,     Thou wilt place upon thy fleecy pinion     When he sleepeth on the rock,     Thou wilt shelter with thy guardian wing     In the forest's midnight hour.     Him whom thou ne'er leavest, Genius,     Thou wilt wrap up warmly     In the snow-drift;     Tow'rd the warmth approach the Muses,     Tow'rd the warmth approach the Graces.     Ye Muses, hover round me!     Ye Graces also!     That is water, that is earth,     And the son of water and of earth     Over which I wander,     Like the gods.     Ye are pure, like the heart of the water,     Ye are pure like the marrow of earth,     Hov'ring round me, while I hover     Over water, o'er the earth     Like the gods.     Shall he, then, return,     The small, the dark, the fiery peasant?     Shall he, then, return, waiting     Only thy gifts, oh Father Bromius,     And brightly gleaming, warmth-spreading fire?     Return with joy?     And I, whom ye attended,     Ye Muses and ye Graces,     Whom all awaits that ye,     Ye Muses and ye Graces,     Of circling bliss in life     Have glorified shall I     Return dejected?     Father Bromius!     Thourt the Genius,     Genius of ages,     Thou'rt what inward glow     To Pindar was,     What to the world     Phoebus Apollo.     Woe! Woe Inward warmth,     Spirit-warmth,     Central-point!     Glow, and vie with     Phoebus Apollo!     Coldly soon     His regal look     Over thee will swiftly glide,     Envy-struck     Linger o'er the cedar's strength,     Which, to flourish,     Waits him not.     Why doth my lay name thee the last?     Thee, from whom it began,     Thee, in whom it endeth,     Thee, from whom it flows,     Jupiter Pluvius!     Tow'rd thee streams my song.     And a Castalian spring     Runs as a fellow-brook,     Runs to the idle ones,     Mortal, happy ones,     Apart from thee,     Who cov'rest me around,     Jupiter Pluvius!     Not by the elm-tree     Him didst thou visit,     With the pair of doves     Held in his gentle arm,     With the beauteous garland of roses,     Caressing him, so blest in his flowers,     Anacreon,     Storm-breathing godhead!     Not in the poplar grove,     Near the Sybaris' strand,     Not on the mountain's     Sun-illumined brow     Didst thou seize him,     The flower-singing,     Honey-breathing,     Sweetly nodding     Theocritus.     When the wheels were rattling,     Wheel on wheel tow'rd the goal,     High arose     The sound of the lash     Of youths with victory glowing,     In the dust rolling,     As from the mountain fall     Showers of stones in the vale     Then thy soul was brightly glowing, Pindar     Glowing? Poor heart!     There, on the hill,     Heavenly might!     But enough glow     Thither to wend,     Where is my cot!