Throbbing thro’ the dawning stillness! 
     As a heart within a breast,
     When the young beloved is stepping
     Radiant to the nuptial nest.

     O for Daphne! gentle Daphne
     Ever warmer by degrees
     Whispers full of hopes and visions
     Throng her ears like honey bees!

     Never yet was lonely blossom
     Woo’d with such delicious voice! 
     Never since hath mortal maiden
     Dwelt on such celestial choice!

     Love-suffused she quivers, falters —
     Falters, sighs, but never speaks,
     All her rosy blood up-gushing
     Overflows her ripe young cheeks.

     Blushing, sweet with virgin blushes,
     All her loveliness a-flame,
     Stands she in the orient waters,
     Stricken o’er with speechless shame!

     Ah! but lovelier, ever lovelier,
     As more deep the colour glows,
     And the honey-laden lily
     Changes to the fragrant rose.

     While the god with meek embraces,
     Whispering all his sacred charms,
     Softly folds her, gently holds her,
     In his white encircling arms!

     But, O Dian! veil not wholly
     Thy pale crescent from the morn! 
     Vanish not, O virgin goddess,
     With that look of pallid scorn!

     Still thy pure protecting influence
     Shed from those fair watchful eyes! —
     Lo! her angry orb has vanished,
     And the bright sun thrones the skies!

     Voicelessly the forest Virgin
     Vanished! but one look she gave —
     Keen as Niobean arrow
     Thro’ the maiden’s heart it drave.

     Thus toward that throning bosom
     Where all earth is warmed,—­each spot
     Nourished with autumnal blessings —
     Icy chill was Daphne caught.

     Icy chill! but swift revulsion
     All her gentler self renewed,
     Even as icy Winter quickens
     With bud-opening warmth imbued.

     Even as a torpid brooklet,
     That to the night-gleaming moon
     Flashed in turn the frozen glances,
     Melts upon the breast of noon.

     But no more—­O never, never,
     Turns she to that bosom bright,
     Swiftly all her senses counsel,
     All her nerves are strung to flight.

     O’er the brows of radiant Pindus
     Rolls a shadow dark and cold,
     And a sound of lamentation
     Issues from its mournful fold.

     Voice of the far-sighted Muses! 
     Cry of keen foreboding song! 
     Every cleft of startled Tempe
     Tingles with it sharp and long.

     Over bourn and bosk and dingle,
     Over rivers, over rills,
     Runs the sad subservient Echo
     Toward the dim blue distant hills!

     And another and another! 
     ’Tis a cry more wild than all;
     And the hills with muffled voices
     Answer ‘Daphne!’ to the call.