Classic Poem

From the French

Turn, Daphne, turn! Apollo said,
When he pursued the flying maid.
I am, said he, the god of verse;
But Daphne still maintain'd her course.

Again he cry'd, Stop, stop, my dear!
With my lute I'll charm thy ear;
She heard, 'tis true, but still she ran
Down the hills and o'er the plain.

At length she out of sight was flown,
And poor Apollo left alone.

Ah, Phoebus, hadst thou said, My dear,
Hither turn thee, cease to fear,
I am the god of cheerful day,
Youthful, handsome, sprightly, gay ...
Those words alone the nymph had mov'd
She would have turn'd, and seen, and lov'd.