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While Avarice forgets to count his gold,
'Yea, unto thee his wither'd hand doth hold
Fill'd with that heart-blood : thou, to whose high might

All things are made to bow,
Come thou to us, and turn thy looks of light

Upon us now!

Oh hear, great Goddess I thou whom all obey ;
At whose desire rough Satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild flowers, decking the bright hair
Of her they love, and oft blackberries bear,
To shame them at her eyes : Oh thou! to whom
They leap in awkward mood, within the gloom
Of darkening oak-trees, or at lightsome noon
Sing unto thee, upon their pipes, a tune
Of wondrous languishment: thou whose great power
Brings up the sea-maids from each ocean-bower,
With many an idle song, to sing to thee,
And bright locks flowing half above the sea,
And gleaming eyes, as if in distant caves
They spied their lovers (so among the waves
Small bubbles flit, mocking the kindly sun,

With little, laughing brightness)
Oh come, and ere our festival is done,

Our new loves bless!

Oh thou, who once didst weep, and with sad tears
Bedew the pitying woods !_by those great fears
That haunted thee when thy Beloved lay
With dark eyes drown'd in death-by that dull day,
When poor Adonis fell with many a moan
Among the leaves, and sadly and alone
Breathed out his spirit-oh! do thou look on
All maidens who, for too great love, grow wan,
And pity them: Come to us when night brings
Her first faint stars, and let us hear the wings
Of thy most beauteous and bright-eyed doves
Stirring the breathless air: let all thy loves
Be flying round thy car, with pleasant songs
Moving upon their lips : Come! each maid longs
For thy fair presence-Goddess of rich love!

Come on the odorous air ;
And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove

All love-sick care !

Lo, we have many kinds of incense here
To offer thee, and sunny wine and clear,
Fit for young Bacchus : Flowers we have here too,
That we have gather'd when the morning dew
Was moist upon them; myrtle wreaths we bear,
To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair,
And shade thy temples too ; 'tis now the time
Of all fair beauty : thou who lov'st the clime
Of our dear Cyprus, where sweet flowers blow
With honey in their cups, and with a glow
Like thine own cheek, raising their modest heads
To be refresh'd with the transparent beads
Of silver dew, behold, this April night
Our altars burn for thee : lo! on the light
We pour out incense from each golden vase ;

- Oh Goddess, hear our words !
And hither turn, with thine own matchless grace,

Thy white-wing'd birds.

No. IV. - To Diana.

Most graceful Goddess !- whether now thou art
Hunting the dun deer in the silent heart
Of some old quiet wood, or on the side
Of some high mountain, and, most eager-eyed,
Dashing upon the chase, with bended bow
And arrow at the string, and with a glow
Of wondrous beauty on thy cheek, and feet
Like thine own silver moon-yea, and as fleet
As her best beams--and quiver at the back
Rattling to all their steppings; if some track
In distant Thessaly thou followest up,
Brushing the dew from many a flower-cup
And quiet leaf, and listening to the bay
Of thy good hounds, while in the deep woods they,
Strong-limb'd and swift, leap on with eager bounds,
And with their long deep note each hill resounds,
Making thee music :-Goddess, hear our cry,
And let us worship thee, while far and high
Goes up thy Brother - while his light is full
Upon the earth; for, when the night winds lull

The world to sleep, then to the lightless sky
Dian must go, with silver robes of dew

And sunward eye.

Perhaps thou liest on some shady spot
Among the trees, while frighten'd beasts hear not
The deep bay of thy hounds; but, dropping down
Upon green grass, and leaves all sere and brown,
Thou pillowest thy delicate head upon
Some ancient mossy root, where wood-winds run
Wildly about thee, and thy fair nymphs point
Thy death-wing'd arrows, or thy hair anoint
With Lydian odours, and thy strong hounds lie
Lazily on the earth, and watch thine eye,
And watch thine arrows, while thou hast a dream,
Perchance, in some deep-bosom'd shaded stream,
Thou bathest now, where even thy brother Sun
Cannot look on thee_where dark shades and dun
Fall on the water, making it most cool,
Like winds from the broad sea, or like some pool
In deep dark cavern : Hanging branches dip
Their locks into the stream, or slowly drip
With tear-drops of rich dew : Before no eyes
But those of fitting wind-gods, each nymph hies

Into the deep, cool, running stream, and there
Thou pillowest thyself upon its breast,

Oh Queen, most fair! By all thine hours of pleasure_when thou wast Upon tall Latmos, moveless, still, and lost In boundless pleasure, ever gazing on Thy bright-eyed Youth, whether the unseen sun Was lighting the deep sea, or at mid-noon Careering through the sky-by every tune And voice of joy that thrill'd about the chords Of thy deep heart when thou didst hear his words In that cool shady grot, where thou hadst brought And placed Endymion; where fair hands had taught All beauty to shine forth; where thy fair maids Had brought up shells for thee, and from the glades All sunny flowers, with precious stones and gems

Of utmost beauty, pearly diadems
Of many sea-gods; birds were there that sang
Ever most sweetly ; living waters rang
Their changes to all time, to soothe the soul
Of thy Endymion; pleasant breezes stole
With light feet through the cave, that they might kiss
His dewy lips ;-Oh, by those hours of bliss

That thou didst then enjoy, come to us, fair And beautiful Diana-take us now

Under thy care!

No. V.- To Mercury.
Oh, winged Messenger ! if thy light feet
Are in the star-paved halls where high gods meet,
Where the rich nectar thou dost take and sip
At idly-pleasant leisure, while thy lip
Utters rich eloquence, until thy foe,
Juno herself, doth her long hate forego,
And hangs upon thine accents; Venus smiles,
And aims her looks at thee with winning wiles ;
And wise Minerva's cup stands idle by
The while thou speakest. Whether up on high
Thou wing'st thy way or dost but now unfuri
Thy pinions like the eagle, while a whirl
Of air takes place about thee-if thy wings
Are over the broad sea, where Afric flings
His hot breath on the waters; by the shore
Of Araby the blest, or in the roar
Of crashing northern ice-Oh turn, and urge
Thy winged course to us! Leave the rough surge,
Or icy mountain height, or city proud,
Or haughty temple, or dim wood down-bow'd

With weaken'd age,
And come to us, thou young and mighty sage!

Thou who invisibly dost ever stand
Near each high orator; and, hand in hand
With the gold-robed Apollo, touch the tongue
Of every poet; on whom men have hung
With strange enchantment, when in dark disguise
Thou hast descended from cloud-curtain'd skies,
And lifted up thy voice, to teach bold men
Thy world-arousing art: oh thou ! that when
The ocean was untrack'd, didst teach them send
Great ships upon it: thou who dost extend
In storm a calm protection to the hopes
Of the fair merchant: thou who on the slopes
Of Mount Cyllene first madest sound the lyre
And many-toned harp with childish fire,
And thine own beauty sounding in the caves
A strange new tune, unlike the ruder staves
That Pan had utter'd-while each wondering nymph
Came out from tree and mountain, and pure lymph
Of mountain stream, to drink each rolling note
That o'er the listening woods did run and float

With fine clear tone,
Like silver trumpets o'er still waters blown :

Oh, matchless Artist! thou of wondrous skill,
Who didst in ages past the wide earth fill
With every usefulness: thou who dost teach
Quick-witted thieves the miser's gold to reach,

And rob him of his sleep for many a night,
Getting thee curses: oh, mischievous Sprite!
Thou Rogue-god Mercury ! ever glad to cheat
All gods and men ; with mute and noiseless feet
Going in search of mischief; now to steal
The fiery spear of Mars, now clog the wheel
Of bright Apollo's car, that it may crawl
Most slowly upward : thou whom wrestlers call,
Whether they strive upon the level green
At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen
Of ancient oak, or at the sacred games
In fierce contest: thou whom each then names
In half-thought prayer, when the quick breath is drawn
For the last struggle: thou whom on the lawn
The victor praises, making unto thee
Offering for his proud honours - let us be

Under thy care :
Oh, winged messenger, hear, hear our prayer!

No. VI.- To Bacchus.
Where art thou, Bacchus ? On the vine-spread hills
Of some rich country, where the red wine fills
The cluster'd grapes-staining thy lips all red
With generous liquor-pouring on thy head
The odorous wine, and ever holding up
Unto the smiling sun thy brimming cup,
And filling it with light? Or doth thy car,
Under the blaze of the far northern star,
Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around
Are shouting Bacchanals and every sound
Of merry revelry, wbile distant men
Start at thy noisings? Or in shady glen
Reclinest thou, beneath green ivy leaves,
And idlest off the day, while each Faun weaves
Green garlands for thee, sipping the rich bowl
That thou hast given him-while the loud roll
Of thy all-conquering wheels is heard no more,
And thy strong tigers have lain down before

Thy grape-stain'd feet ?

Oh, Bacchus! come and meet
Thy worshippers, the while, with merry lore

Of ancient song, thy godhead they do greet!
Oh thou who lovest pleasure ! at whose heart
Rich wine is always felt; who hast a part
In all air-swelling mirth; who in the dance
Of merry maidens join'st, where the glance
Of bright black eyes, or white and twingling feet
Of joyous fair ones, doth thy quick eyes greet
Upon some summer green : Maker of joy
To all care-troubled men! who dost destroy
The piercing pangs of grief; for whom the maids
Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades
Hang up thy image, and with beaming looks
Go dancing round, while shepherds with their crooks
Join the glad company, and pass about,
With merry laugh and many a gleesome shout,
Staining with rich dark grapes cach little cheek
They most do love ; and then, with sudden freak,
Taking the willing hand, and dancing on
About the green mound: Oh, thou merry Son

Of lofty Jove!
Wherever thou dost rove

Among the grape-vines, come, ere day is done,

And let us too thy sunny influenco prove!

Where art thou, Conqueror? before whom fell
The jewell'd kings of Ind, when the strong swell
Of thy great multitudes came on them, and
Thou hadst thy thyrsus in thy red right hand,
Sbaking it over them, till every soul
Grew faint as with wild lightning ; when the roll
Of thy great chariot-wheels was on the neck
Of many a conqueror; when thou didst check
Thy tigers and thy lynxes at the shore
Of the broad ocean, and didst still the roar,
Pouring a sparkling and most pleasant wine
Into its waters; when the dashing brine
Toss'd up new odours, and a pleasant scent
Upon its breath, and many who were spent
With weary sickness, breathed of life anew
When wine-inspired breezes on them blew ;-
Bacchus! who bringest all men to thy feet!
Wine-god! with brow of light, and smiles most sweet!
Make this our earth :

A sharer in thy mirth
Let us rejoice thy wine-dew'd hair to greet,

And chant to thee, who gay'st young Joy his birth.

Come to our ceremony! lo, we rear
An altar of bright turf unto thee here,
And crown it with the vine and pleasant leaf
Of clinging ivy: Come, and drive sad Grief
Far from us ! lo, we pour thy turf upon
Full cups of wine, bidding the westering sun
Fill the good air with odour; see, a mist
Is rising from the sun-touch'd wine !-(ah! hist!
Alas! 'twas not his cry!)_with all thy train
Of laughing Satyrs, pouring out a strain
Of utmost shrillness on the noisy pipe-
Oh, come!-with eye and lip of beauty, ripe
And wondrous rare-oh! let us hear thy wheels
Coming upon the hills, while twilight steals
Upon us quietly-while the dark night
Is hinder'd from her course by the fierce light
Of thy wild tigers' eyes ;-oh! let us see
The revelry of thy wild company,

With all thy train;

And, ere night comes again,
We'll pass o'er many a hill and vale with thee,

Raising to thee a loudly-joyous strain.

No. VII.-To Somnus.

Oh Thou, the leaden-eyed! with drooping lid
Hanging upon thy sight, and eye half-hid
By matted hair: that, with a constant train
Of empty dreams, all shadowless and vain
As the dim wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave
With poppies at the mouth, which night winds wave,
Sending their breathings downward-on thy bed,

Thine only throne, with darkness overspread,
VOL, XLV, NO. CCLXXXIV,

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