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
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 unfurl
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 carth 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
Oh, winged messenger, hear, hear our prayer!
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, while 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
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 each 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!
Among the grape-vines, come, ere day is done,
And let us too thy sunny influence 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,
Shaking 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 gav'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.
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,
And curtains black as are the eyes of night:
Thou, who dost come at time of waning light
And sleep among the woods, where night doth hide
And tremble at the sun, and shadows glide
Among the waving tree-tops; if now there
Thou sleepest in a current of cool air,
Within some nook, amid thiek flowers and moss,
Grey-colour'd as thine eyes, while thy dreams toss
Their fantasies about the silent earth,
In waywardness of mirth—
Oh, come! and hear the hymn that we are chanting
Amid the star-light through the thick leaves slanting.
Thou lover of the banks of idle streams
O'ershaded by broad oaks, with scatter'd gleams
From the few stars upon them; of the shore
Of the broad sea, with silence hovering o'er;
The great moon hanging out her lamp to gild
The murmuring waves with hues all pure and mild,
Where thou dost lie upon the sounding sands,
While winds come dancing on from southern lands
With dreams upon their backs, and unseen waves
Of odours in their hands: thou, in the caves
Of the star-lighted clouds, on summer eves
Reclining lazily, while Silence leaves
Her influence about thee: in the sea
That liest, hearing the monotony
Of wavers far off above thee, like the wings
Of passing dreams, while the great ocean swings
His bulk above thy sand-supported head-
(As chain'd upon his bed
Some giant, with an idleness of motion,
So swings the still and sleep-enthralled ocean).
Thou who dost bless the weary with thy touch,
And makest Agony relax his clutch
Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart;
Pale Disappointment lose her constant smart,
And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep
Her life away, and gain new cheer in sleep:
Thou who dost bless the birds, in every place
Where they have sung their songs with wondrous grace
Throughout the day, and now, with drooping wing,
Amid the leaves receive thy welcoming:-
Come with thy crowd of dreams, oh thou! to whom
All noise is most abhorr'd, and in this gloom,
Beneath the shaded brightness of the sky,
Where are no sounds but as the winds go by,-
Here touch our eyes, great Somnus! with thy wand—
Ah! here thou art, with touch most mild and bland,
And we forget our hymn, and sink away;
And here, until broad day
Come up into the sky, with fire-steeds leaping,
Will we recline, beneath the vine leaves sleeping.
Goddess of bounty! at whose spring-time call,
When on the dewy earth thy first tones fall,
Pierces the ground each young and tender blade,
And wonders at the sun; each dull grey glade
Is shining with new grass; from each chill hole,
Where they had lain enchain'd and dull of soul,
The birds come forth, and sing for joy to thee
Among the springing leaves; and, fast and free,
The rivers toss their chains up to the sun,
And through their grassy banks leapingly run
When thou hast touch'd them: thou who ever art
The Goddess of all Beauty: thou whose heart
Is ever in the sunny meads and fields;
To whom the laughing earth looks up and yields
Her waving treasures: thou that in thy car,
With winged dragons, when the morning star
Sheds his cold light, touchest the morning trees
Until they spread their blossoms to the breeze;-
Oh, pour thy light
Of truth and joy upon our souls this night,
And grant to us all plenty and good ease!
Oh thou, the Goddess of the rustling Corn!
Thou to whom reapers sing, and on the lawn
Pile up their baskets with the full-ear'd wheat;
While maidens come, with little dancing feet,
And bring thee poppies, weaving thee a crown
Of simple beauty, bending their heads down
To garland thy full baskets: at whose side,
Among the sheaves of wheat, doth Bacchus ride.
With bright and sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth
All wine-stain'd from the warm and sunny south:
Perhaps one arm about thy neck he twines,
While in his car ye ride among the vines,
And with the other hand he gathers up
The rich full grapes, and holds the glowing cup
Unto thy lips-and then he throws it by,
And crowns thee with bright leaves to shade thine eye,
So it may gaze with richer love and light
Upon his beaming brow; If thy swift flight
Of vine-hung Thrace-oh, come, while night is still, And greet with heaping arms our gladden'd sight!
Lo! the small stars, above the silver wave,
Come wandering up the sky, and kindly lave
The thin clouds with their light, like floating sparks
Of diamonds in the air; or spirit barks,
With unseen riders, wheeling in the sky.
Lo! a soft mist of light is rising high,
Like silver shining through a tint of red,
And soon the queened moon her love will shed,
Like pearl-mist, on the earth and on the sea,
Where thou shalt cross to view our mystery.
Lo! we have torches here for thee, and urns,
Where incense with a floating odour burns,
And altars piled with various fruits and flowers,
And ears of corn, gather'd at early hours,
And odours fresh from India, with a heap
Of many-coloured poppies:-Lo! we keep
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