 | Gen. Albert Pike's poems |  |
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Hymns to the Gods.
No. 1. TO HĒRA.
I.
Mother of Gods! devoutly we inclineOur willing knees before thy holy shrine,
Where Imbrasus runs seaward, strong and swift,
Through the green plains of Samos. Lo! we lift
Gladly to thee our many-voiced strain,
Sung never to thy Majesty in vain.
The day wears on; the expanding sun stoops low;
While, in the east, thy Messenger's bent bow
Gladdens the eyes of eager worshippers.
A soft, sweet wind thy garlands lightly stirs,
Where thy loved flowers, dear Queen of Heaven, Divine!
White lillies with the dittany entwine,
And the gay poppy. Wilt thou deign to hear
Our solemn chant—loud, earnest, and sincere—
And grant our prayer? Come from Olympus down,
In regal glory, with thy starry crown,
And sceptre flashing with great gems, whereon
Thy cuckoo broods! Let not the reluctant sun
Dip in the sea, before our glad eyes greet
The distant glitter of thy snowy feet,
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That shame the fairest of our green isle's daughters,
And flash upon the undulating sea,
Like rays of star-light on a blue meer's slumbering waters!
II.
Power, Empire, Virtue,—these are thy gift;Inspired by thee, low men their eyes uplift,
As hawks to the sun, and aim at high estate,
And reach it; while the mighty and the great,
Toppling like towers, fall headlong. By thee urged,
Men in the sloughs of wretchedness immerged
Arm them anew with courage resolute,
Bear pain and evil with endurance mute,
And grow divine in virtuous fortitude.
Woman, by thee with constancy endued,
In ill report and evil fortune clings
More closely to her husband's side, and brings
Her lovely patience ever to his aid
In the world's fierce trials. Power and Empire fade
And are dissolved like a thin April cloud;
But Virtue is immortal. Men have bowed
A thousand years before thy lofty shrines,
Clamoring for Power; but rarely one inclines,
In prayer for Virtue, Truth and Constancy,
Before thine altars the obsequious knee.
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Of these—the only true and priceless treasure—
Do humbly and beseechingly entreat
Thy Majesty benign to grant us ample measure.
III.
Where tarriest thou, Cithæronæa, now?—Perhaps, upon some mountain's regal brow—
Cyllene or Oromedon—reclined,
No cares of state disturbing thy great mind,
Thou gazest on our lovely Grecian isles,
Along whose shores the tranquil ocean smiles
Serene as thou: around thee hoary firs
Swing their tall heads, and many an old beech stirs,
And, dreaming, murmurs, and the grave oaks spread
Their leafy limbs; and, watching overhead,
Thy kingly hawk, scarce moving his wide wings,
Rocked by the mountain-breezes, idly swings:
Perhaps in some secluded, shady nook,
On the green margin of a happy brook,
Lulled by its music into tranquil sleep,
While thy young Nymphs demurely round thee keep
Their patient vigil. In whatever spot
Of rarest beauty,—cave, lawn, dell, or grot,
Cool glade, deep vale, or silver-sanded shore,
Or river-bank shaded with sycamore,—
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To the loud echo of our plaintive voices:
Approach us while the laughing Earth is green,
And the young Spring in buds and golden flowers rejoices.
IV.
Oh, Queen! beloved of all the laughing Hours,Let snowy-shouldered Hebe, crowned with flowers,
Before the rising of the evening-star,
Harness the peacocks to thy jewelled car:
Leave, for a time, the mighty Thunderer's side,
And thy swift birds let dextrous Iris guide
To our fair shore. Stay not thy flashing wheels
On the dark Euxine, ploughed with many keels,
Or where the vexed Propontis hoarsely swells;
In Cos, or Naxos, or the Arcadian dells;
Come, Heaven's wonder! come to our island, first;
Where thou wast born, and by the Seasons nursed!
By those sweet hours when all thy virgin charms
Were first encircled by Jove's mighty arms,—
When thy large eyes, magnificently bright,
Looked into his with soft and loving light,
And, on his breast hiding thy blushing face,
Thou hadst no peer in loveliness and grace,—
By those sweet hours, come! while the sun yet slides
Down the sky's slant, and bless these innocent brides,
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Their breasts with fear and rapture palpitating:
Come! thou, who must their virgin zones untie,
Lest they, despairing, weep, and faint with longer waiting.
1845.
No. 2. TO POSEIDŌN.
I.
God of the mighty deep! wherever nowThe waves beneath thy brazen axles bow;
Whether thy strong, proud steeds, wind-winged and wild,
Trample the storm-vexed waters round them piled,
Swift as the lightning-flashes that reveal
The quick gyrations of each massive wheel,—
While round and under thee, with hideous roar,
The broad Atlantic, with thy scourging sore,
Thundering like antique Chaos in his spasms.
In heaving mountains and deep-yawning chasms,
Fluctuates endlessly; while through the gloom,
Their glossy sides and thick manes flecked with foam,
Career thy coursers, neighing with mad glee,
In fierce response to the tumultuous sea:—
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Among wrecked ships, where the green sea-plants grow,
Broad-leaved, and sighing with eternal motion
Over the pale, cold tenants of the ocean:
Oh, come! our lofty altars for thee stand,
Smoking with incense, on the level strand.
II.
Perhaps with loose rein now thy horses roamOver the Adriatic. No salt foam
Stains their fine limbs, but softly, leisurely,
They tread with silver feet that still, calm sea,
Fanning the waters with their floating manes,
That gleam like mist in sunshine; while shrill strains
From clamorous trumpets round thy chariot ring,
And green-robed sea-gods praising thee, their king,
Chaunt loudly; while Apollo bends his gaze
Lovingly on thee, and his soft, clear rays
Tame thy wild coursers' eyes. The air feels warm
On the sea's forehead, where the cold, harsh storm
So lately thundered, and the rebel winds
That Æolus in cave and den now binds,
Beat their broad wings. Perhaps long leagues below
Thou sleepest in green caves, where sea-flowers glow
Brighter than sapphires: many a monster cumbers
The sand around thee; aged Triton slumbers
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From many a nook, watching thy dreamless sleep.
III.
Perhaps thou art resting on some Indian isle,Under a broad, thick tree, where, many a mile,
Stretches a sunny shore, with golden sands,
Piled in fantastic shapes by Naiads' hands;
Where the small waves come coyly, one by one,
And curl upon the beach, like molten gold,
Thick-set with jewellery, rare and old.
Sea-nymphs sit near, and with small delicate shells
Make thee such melody, as in deep dells,
Of a May-night, is by the Fairies made,
When, frolicking within some sober shade,
They sound their silver flutes, soft, faint, and sweet,
In strange but exquisite tunes; and delicate feet
Dance softly on the grass-blades gemmed with dew,
That bend, not break: all wanton airs that blew
So lately through the spice-trees, hover there,
With overladen wings that loan to the air
Wealth of perfume. Oh! wilt thou not arise,
And come with them to our new sacrifice?
1829.
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No. 3. TO DĒMĒTĒR.
I.
Goddess of bounty! at whose spring-time call,When on the dewey earth thy first tones fall,
And echo in its heart, each young green blade
Springs, wondering, into life; the dull, gray glade
Is liveried with new grass,—from each chill hole,
Where they had nestled, dumb, and dull of soul,
The glad birds come, and sing for joy to thee,
Among the thronging leaves; and fast and free
The rivers run, crushing their icy chains,
Broken by thee and by thine April rains,
Through green glad valleys: Thou who chiefly 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 choicest treasures: Thou, that in thy car,
Drawn by winged dragons, when the morning star
Sheds his cool light, dost touch the budding trees,
And all their blossoms woo the trembling breeze;
Oh! pour thy light
Of truth and joy upon our souls to-night,
And grant to us great plenty and sweet ease!
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II.
Benignant Goddess of the rustling corn!Thou to whom reapers sing, and on the lawn
Bind up gigantic sheaves of full-eared wheat;
While innocent maids, with little, dancing feet,
Bring thee gay poppies, weave for thee a crown
Of modest flowers, and gracefully bend down
To garland thy full baskets; at whose side,
Among the sheaves, young Bacchos loves to ride,
With bright, clear, sparkling eyes, and feet and mouth
All wine-stained in the glad and sunny south!
Perhaps ye ride among the leafy vines,
While round thy neck one rosy arm he twines,
And with the other hand still gathers up
And presses the plump grapes, and holds the cup
To thy loved lips, then throws aside the wine,
And crowns thee with the green leaves of the vine,
Kisses thy brow, thy mouth, thine eyes most bright
With love and joy. If those dear eyes now light
Some favored hill
Of vine-clad Thrace, oh! come, while all is still,
And with them bless the coming of this night!
III.
Lo! the small stars rise from the silver ocean,And wander up the sky. A sweet emotion
Stirs the white bosoms of the thin, soft clouds;
And the light mist, that the gray hills enshrouds,
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Lo! a soft blush of light is rising there,
Like silver shining through a tint of red;
And soon the queenly moon her love will shed
Like pearl-mist on the islands and the sea,
Which thou wilt cross to view our mystery.
Lo! we have torches here for thee, and urns,
Where incense with delicious odor burns,
On altars piled with glowing fruit, as sweet
And ripe as thy sweet lips; with yellow wheat,
Flowers gathered while the Dawn lay half-asleep,
And Indian spices: patiently we keep
Our earnest watch for thee, bending before
Thy waiting altars, till to our fair shore
Thy chariot-wheels
Shall roll, while Ocean to the burden reels,
And utters to the sky a stifled roar.
1830.
No. 4. TO DIÓNŪSOS.
[I.]
Where art thou, Dionusos? On the hillsOf some fair land afar, where sweet wine fills
The clustered grapes, dost stain thy ripe lips red
With rich old juice, that men long ages dead—
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'Twixt thee and the sun thy jewel-cinctured cup,
With luminous rubies brimmed? Or doth thy car,
Lit by the blaze of the far northern star,
Roll over Thracia's hills, while all around
Shout thy mad bacchanals, and rings the sound
Of merry revelry, and distant men
Start at thy clamor? Or in some cool glen
Reclinest thou, under dark ivy leaves,
Idling the day off, while each mad Faun weaves
Gay garlands for thee, sipping a great bowl
Of stout, strong wine; and the dismaying roll
Of thy all-conquering wheels no more is heard,
But thy strong tigers, with no fierce dream stirred,
Crouch at thy feet?
Iacchos! come to meet
Thy worshippers, that here with merry word
Of olden song thy godhead long to greet.
II.
Oh, thou who lovest pleasure! at whose heartWine's warmth is always felt; who takest part
In all mad, wanton mirth; who in the dance
Of merry maidens joinest, where the glance
Of bright black eyes, and twinkling of white feet,
Of lovely girls delight thee, when they meet
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To all careworn, sad men!—whose smiles make cease
The piercing pains of grief; for whom young maids
Weave ivy garlands, and in pleasant glades
Hang up thine image, and, with happy looks,
Go dancing round, while shepherds, with long crooks,
Join the glad company, and glide about
With merry laugh and many a hearty shout,
Staining with rich dark grapes each little cheek
That most they love; and then, with sudden freak,
Seizing the willing hand, and dancing on
About the green mound:—Oh, thou merry son
Of supreme JOVE!
Wherever thou dost rove,
Among the thick vines, come, ere day is done,
And let us too thy sunny influence prove.
III.
Where art thou. CONQUEROR!—before whom fellThe jewelled kings of Ind, when the strong swell
Of thy great multitudes came on them, and
The mystic thursos in thy red right hand
Was shaken over them, till every soul
Grew faint, as smit with lightning; when the roll
Of thy great chariot-wheels was on the neck
Of mighty potentates; till thou didst check
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Of the Indian sea, and still its angry roar
With sparkling and delicious Grecian wine
Poured on its waters, till the contented brine
Gave forth new odors, and a pleasant scent
Of rare perfume; and haggard men, all spent
With long, sharp sickness, drank in life anew,
When the rich sea-breeze through their lattice blew
Bacchos! who tramplest Care with thy soft feet,
Oh, hither turn thy tigers, strong and fleet,
And light our happy isles
With the radiance of thy smiles!
Come, with thy hair dewy with wine, and meet
Those who, for thee, have trod the weary miles.
IV.
Come to our ceremony! Lo, we rearAn altar of green turf, the sea-beach near,
And garland it with vine-shoots, and the leaf
Of glossy ivy. Come! and chase all grief
Far from us! Lo! upon the turf we pour
Full cups of wine, till all along the shore
Eddies the luscious odor. See! a mist
Is rising from the wine-stained turf—(Ah, hist!—
Alas! 'twas not his cry!)—Come with thy train
Of riotous Satyrs, pouring forth a strain
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Come, with thine eye and lip of beauty ripe
And wondrous rare, and let us hear thy wheels
Rolling along the hills, while twilight steals
Quietly up, and dusky sober Night
Is hindered from her star-track by the light
Of thy wild tigers' eyes! Cross the calm sea
With all thy mad and merry company!
The stars shall wax and wane,
And ere day comes again,
We'll wander over hill and vale with thee,
Sending afar a loudly joyous strain.
1829.
No. 5. TO 'APHRODÍTÉ.
I.
Oh, thou most lovely and most beautiful!—Wherever cooingly thy white doves lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumber; whether on
The truant south-wind floating, or if gone
To some still cloud in dreamy sleep that swings,
And there reclining, while its snowy wings
Blush into crimson: whether thy delicate wheels,
Over green sward that scarce the pressure feels,
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Leaving the poor, green blades to look, alas!
With dim eyes at the moon,—(Ah! so dost thou
Dim other eyes and brighter!)—whether now
Thou floatest over the sea, while each white wing
Of thy fair doves is wet, and sea-maids bring
Sweet odours for thee,—(Ah! how foolish they!
They have not felt thy smart,
They know not, while in ocean-caves they play,
How cruel and strong thou art!)
II.
Hear, 'Aphrodite! Hear our rustic song!Thalassia, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings; ring-doves coo to thee,
While they entwine their arch'd necks lovingly,
Among the murmuring leaves; thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we surely look.—
In the dusk depths of some leaf-shaded nook
Thou hidest frequently, where soft winds wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy radiant brow, and ruffle the delicate wings
Of thy tired doves; where his quaint love-tale sings,
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In notes that never but by thee are heard.—
In some such spot dreaming thou liest now,
And with half-open eye,
Drinkest in beauty. Fairest of heaven, do thou
Hear kindly our faint cry!
III.
Doris! from whom all things upon this earthTake light and life; for whom even laughing Mirth
Doubles his glee; thou, whom the joyous bird
Continually sings; whose name is heard
In every pleasant noise; at whose warm glance
All things look brighter; for whom wine doth dance
More merrily within the agate vase,
To meet thy lip; glimpsing at whose sweet face,
Joy leaps on faster, with a clearer laugh,
And Sorrow flings into the sea his staff,
And tossing back the hair from his dim eyes,
Looks up again to long-forgotten skies;
While Avarice forgets to count his gold,
And even offers thee his wealth untold,
Dear as his heart's blood. Thou to whose high might
All things are glad to bow,
Come unto us, and with thy looks of light,
Bless and console us now!
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IV.
Hear us, 'Ourania! Thou whom all obey!At whose sweet will rough Satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild-flowers to adorn the hair
Of the young nymphs, and nuts and berries bear
To those they fancy most. Paphia, to whom
They leap in awkward mood through the dusk gloom
Of darkening oak-trees, or at sunny noon
Play unto thee, on their rude pipes, a tune
Of wondrous languishment! Thou, whose great power
Brings up young sea-maids from each ocean-bower,
With many an idle song to sing to thee,
And bright locks floating mist-like on the sea,
And glancing eyes, as if in distant caves
They spied their lovers,—(so along blue waves
Small bubbles flit, mocking the genial sun;)—
Let cares no more oppress
Thy servitors! but, ere our feast is done,
Our new loves kindly bless!
V.
Oh, thou who once didst weep, and with sad tearsBedew the pitying woods! by those great fears
That haunted thee when young Adonis lay
With dark eyes drowned in death;—by that dull day
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On the dead leaves, and sadly and alone
Breathe out his life;—deign thou to look upon
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 beautiful and bright-eyed doves,
Fanning the breathless air. Let all the Loves
Fly round thy chariot, with sweet, low songs
Murmuring upon their lips. Come! each maid longs
For thy fair presence, Goddess of true Love!
Float through the odorous air,
And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove
Sadness and love-sick care.
VI.
Lo! we have many kinds of incense here,To burn to thee; wine as the sunshine clear,
Fit for young Bacchos; flowers we have here, too,
Gathered by star-light, when the morning-dew
Was fresh upon them; myrtle-wreaths we bear,
To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair,
And shade thy temples. 'Tis the proper time
For all fair beauty. Thou, who lovest the clime
Of our dear isle, where roses bud and blow
With honey in their bosoms, and a glow
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To be refreshed with the transparent beads
Of diamond dew, paling the young moon's rays,—
Our altars burn for thee, and on the blaze
We pour rich incense from great golden vases.
Queen Cypria! hear our words,
And hither urge, circled with all the Graces,
Thy team of snow-winged birds!
1829.
No. 6. TO APOLLŌN.
I.
Bright-haired Apollon! Thou that ever artA blessing to the world! whose generous heart
Aye overflows with love and light and life!
Thou, at whose glance all things on earth are rife
With happiness! to whom, in early Spring,
Flowers lift their heads, whether they laughing cling
To the steep mountain's side, or in the vale
Timidly nestle! Thou, to whom the pale
Chill, weary Earth looks up, when Winter flees,
With patient gaze, and the storm-shattered trees
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Poured from thy brilliant orb! Thou in whose bright,
Coruscant rays, the eagle feeds his eye
With flashing fire, and far, far up on high
Screams out his haughty joy! By all the names
And the high titles that thy Godhead claims,—
Phoibos, or Clarios, golden-haired Apollo,
Cunthios, or Puthios,—cease for a time to follow
The fleeing Night, and hear
Our hymn to thee, and smilingly draw near!
II.
Most exquisite poet! Thou, whose great heart's swellPours itself out on mountain, lawn, and dell!
Thou who dost touch them with thy golden feet,
And make them for the Painter's use complete;
Inspired by whom the Poet's eyes perceive
Great beauty everywhere,—in the slow heave
Of the unquiet sea, or in the roar
Of its resounding waters,—on the shore
Of pleasant streams,—in the dark, jagged rift
Of savage mountains, where the black clouds drift,
Flushed with swift lightning,—on the broad, dark brow
Of silent Night, that solemnly and slow
Walks up the sky. Oh, thou, whose influence
Tinges all things with beauty, makes each sense
Double delight, and clothes with a delicate grace
All that is young and fair; while all the base
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Incarnate lordliness, hear! while our youth
With earnest yearning cry:
Answer our hymn, and come to us, Most High!
III.
In quaint disguise, with wondrous grace and fire,Often thou makest, on thy golden lyre,
Exquisite music, on smooth, sunny glades,
Where on the greensward dance the village maids,
Their hair adorned with wild-flowers, or a wreath
Of thine own laurel; while, reclined beneath
Some ancient oak, thou smilest at these elves,
As though thou wert all human like themselves.
Sometimes thou playest in the darkening wood,
While Fauns glide forth, in dance grotesque and rude,
Flitting among the trees with awkward leap,
Like their god, Pan; and from fir-thickets deep
Come up the Satyrs, joining the mad crew,
And capering for thy pleasure. From each yew,
And beech, and oak, the wood-nymphs shyly peep,
To see the revelry; and from its sleep
The merry laughter wakes the startled wood,
And music cheers its dusk, deep solitude.
Oh, come, and let the sound
Of thy sweet lyre eddy our isle around!
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IV.
Great Seer and Prophet! Thou that teachest menThe deepest-hidden lore, and from his den
Dost pluck the Future, so that he floats by
In visible shape, apparent to the eye,
But robed with visions: thou, in whose high power
Are health and sickness: thou who oft dost shower
Great plagues on impious nations, with hot breath
Withering their souls, and raining sudden death
Like fiery mist among them; or, again,
Like the sweet breeze after a summer rain,
That thrills the earth like love, thou sendest out
Health, like a lovely child, that goes about,
With soft, white feet, among the sick and weak,
Kissing with rosy lip each poor pale cheek,
Shaking perfume from its white wings, and through
The shrivelled heart stirring the blood, anew
To fill the abandoned veins. Oh, thou, whose name
Is hymned by all, let us too dare to claim
Thy holy presence here!
Hear us, bright God, and lend a gracious ear!
V.
Hear us! Thou master of the springing bow,Who lovest in the gloomy woods to throw
Thine arrows to the mark, like the keen flight
Of those that fill the universe with light.
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And lordly lions flee, timid as hares,
To hide among safe mountains! Thou, whose cry
Sounds in the autumn-woods, where whirl and fly
The brown dry leaves,—when with his riotous train
Bacchus is on the hills, and on the plain
Full-armed Demeter; when upon the sea
The brine-gods blow their shells, and laughingly
The broad world rings with glee. Then thy clear voice
Stills into silence every truant noise,
Pealing with utmost sweetness on the hills,
And in the echoes of the dancing rills,
Over the sea and on the sounding plain,
And eddying air, until all voices wane
Before its influence:
Draw near, great God, before the day goes hence!
VI.
By that most fatal day, when with a cryYoung Huakinthos fell, and his dark eye
Was dimmed with blood,—when, dying, on a bed
Of his own flowers he laid his wounded head,
Breathing great sighs; by those heart-cherished eyes
Of long-loved Huakinthos, by the sighs
That then, oh, young Apollon, thou didst pour
On every gloomy hill and desolate shore,
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Thine eyes with eclipse, till the chilled earth was full
Of sad forebodings, for thy radiance dimmed;
Prayers by pale priests in many a fane were hymned
To the pale-eyed Sun; the frightened Satyrs strayed
Long in dark woods, and then to the chill glade
Came to lament that thou wast still unkind;
Artemis wept for love, and plained and pined
For light and life: by that most fearful grief,
Oh! bright Apollon, hear, and grant relief
To us who cry to thee!
And let us, ere we die, thy glory see!
1829.
No. 7. TO ARTEMIS.
I.
Most graceful Goddess! whether now thy feetPursue the dun deer to their deep retreat
In the heart of some old wood, or on the side
Of some high mountain; where, most eager-eyed,
Thou glidest on the chase, with bended bow,
And arrow at the string, a wondrous glow
Of exquisite beauty on thy cheek, and feet
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As her soft rays,—with quiver at thy back
Rattling to all thy steppings. If some track
In far-off Thessaly thou followest up,
Brushing the dew from many a flower's full cup,
With head bent forward, harking to the bay
Of thy good hounds, while in the deep woods they,
Strong-limbed and swift, leap on with eager bounds,
And from far hills their long, deep note resounds,
Thy sweetest music: Orthia, hear our cry,
And let us worship thee, while far and high
Climbs up thy brother,—while his light falls full
Upon the earth,—for when the night-winds lull
The world to sleep, then to the lightless sky
Delia must glide, with robes of silver dew
And sunward eye!
II.
Perhaps thou hiest to some shady spotAmong broad trees, while frightened beasts hear not
The clamor of thy hounds; there, dropping down
Upon green grass and leaves all sere and brown,
Thou pillowest thy delicate head upon
Some gnarled and moss-robed root, where soft winds run
Riot about thee, and thy fair Nymphs point
Thy death-winged arrows, or thy hair anoint
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Lazily on the ground, and watch thine eye,
And watch thine arrows, while thou hast a dream.
Perhaps in some deep-bosomed, shaded stream
Thou bathest now, where even the loving Sun
Catches no glimpse of thee; where shadows on
The water's dusk collect, and make it cool,
Like the wind-chilled wide sea, or some clear pool
Deep in a cavern; hanging branches dip
Their ringlets in the stream, or slowly drip
With tear-drops of clear dew: before no eyes
But those of flitting wind-gods, each nymph hies
Into the deep, cool, rippling stream, and there
Thou pillowest thyself upon its breast,
Queen Cynthia, the Fair.
III.
By all thine hours of pleasure!—when thou wastUpon tall Latmos, moveless, tranced, and lost
In boundless pleasure, ever gazing on
Thy bright-eyed youngster; when the absent Sun
Was lighting remote seas, or at mid-noon
Careering through the sky! By every tune
And voice of joy that thrilled about the chords
Of thy great heart, when on it fell his words.
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And placed Endumion;—where fair hands had taught
All beauty to shine forth; where thy young maids
Had brought rare shells for him, and from the glades
All starry flowers, with precious stones, and gems
Of utmost beauty, pearly diadems
Of ancient sea-gods: birds were there, that sang
And carolled ever; living waters rang
Their changes at all times, to sooth the soul
Of thy Endumion; pleasant breezes stole
With light feet through the nook, that they might kiss
His dewy lips. Ah! by those hours of bliss,
Worth a whole life in heaven, come to us, fair
And beautiful Aricia! Take us under
Thy gentle care.
1829.
No. 8. TO ARÉS.
I.
Great War-God! mighty Ares! Hear our hymn,Sung to thee in the wood-recesses dim
Of dusky Caria, near the Icarian wave!—
When war's red storms in lurid fury rave,
And the fierce billows of his hungry tide
Over the groaning land sweep far and wide;—
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And bristling thick with javelins, madly reel
In desperate conflict;—when the mighty roar
Peals upward, shaking heaven's great golden floor,
Even as the tumult of the maddened sea
Shakes granite towers;—when Fear, and Agony,
And Desperation, riot, hand-in-hand,
And Fire and Famine waste the lean, lank land:—
Then thou, rejoicing, ragest through the field;
Like mountain-thunder clangs thy brazen shield;
Thy falchion, like the lightning, flashes far;
The frightened Earth, under thy sounding car,
(Whirled swiftly by thy brazen-footed steeds,
Flight and mad Terror), shuddering, quakes and shivers;
And ever, as the war's red surge recedes,
Brooks swelled with blood run downward to red rivers.
II.
Turn thy wild coursers from our lovely land!Let not their hoofs trample our golden strand!
Shake not thy spear above our fruitful hills,
Nor turn to blood the waters of our rills!
Crush not our flowers with thy remorseless wheels,
Nor let our grain be trod with armed heels,
That the poor starve! Let not thy sister ride,
With Pestilence and Famine, by thy side;
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Enfolded, radiant with a thousand charms,—
Her lovely head held on thy massive chest,
Her sweet eyes soothing into placid rest
Thy fiery passions; while her doves glide through
The sparkling atmosphere. Bring with thee, too,
Thy lovely children, at their mother's side;—
Eros, whose form expands, and wings grow wide,
When his sweet brother, Anteros, is near,
The God of tenderest love, and faith sincere;—
With fair Harmonia clinging to thy neck,
And mingling music with her glad caresses;
While the young Charites flit round, and deck
With dew-enjewelled flowers thy loved one's golden tresses,
III.
Let thy harsh wheels roll through Abarimon,Where Mount Imaus glitters in the sun,
Throned like a king, in solitary state:
Make there more rugged and more desolate
The frozen Scythian wildernesses; grind
To dust the Indian rocks, and like the wind
Drive thy fleet coursers through the Median plains,
And over Bactria's barbarous domains;
But spare the isles of our beloved Greece,
And leave them sleeping tranquilly in peace.
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Thine altar sendeth to the clouds its smoke,
Whereon the wolf and hungry vulture bleed,
The magpie, and the bold and generous steed.
We bow in adoration at thy shrine,
Dark-bearded God, majestic and divine!
Our incense, burning, loads the eddying air,
And Kuthereia joins us in our prayer.
Wilt thou not listen kindly to the strain
Which now around our vine-clad hills is pealing?
For when did Beauty ever sue in vain,
Even in his sternest mood meekly to Valor kneeling?
1845.
No. 9. TO PALLAS.
I.
Hear, blue-eyed Pallas! Eagerly we call,Entreating thee to our glad festival,
Held in the sunny morning of the year,
On this our rosy isle, to thee most dear.
Thine altar, builded by young maidens' hands,
Near the Carpathian's sparkling water stands,
Upon the slant and sunny Rhodian shore,
Gracing the green lawn's undulating floor,
65
Rampart the precincts of the holy ground.
Myriads of roses, flushing full in bloom,
Send to far Caria surge of rich perfume,
Like the glad incense of our prayer, which floats
Up to the trembling stars. The ringing notes
Of silver flutes roll through the echoing woods,
Startling the Fauns in their shy solitudes.
A hundred boys, each fairer than a girl,
Over the greensward, clad in armor, whirl
In thy wild mystic dance. A hundred maids,
In white and gold, come from the dusky glades,—
The loveliest of our beauty-blessed isle,—
Their small white feet gleaming like stars, that smile
In the dark azure of a moonless night.
They bear thy robe of pure and stainless white,
Sleeveless, embroidered richly with fine gold,
Whereon thy deeds are told,
Those, chiefly, done of old,
When, blazing in the van, thou didst the Giants fight.
II.
Brain-born of Zeus! Thou who dost give to menKnowledge and wisdom; and hast brought again
Science and art, in renovated youth,
And taught fair Greece to love and seek the truth;
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Fearing thy potent anger to incur,
Bend down beseechingly, and pray for aid,
In all the cunning mysteries of their trade;
Inspired by thee, young men, immersed in cells,
Drink deep of learning, at Time's ancient wells,
Forget that Beauty's starry eyes still shine,
And love Athene only, the Divine:
Old gray-haired sages pore on antique scrolls,
And feed with wisdom's oil their burning souls,
Inspired by thee, the prophet sees afar
The signs of peace, the portents of grim war;
Foretells the strange and wayward destinies
Of nations and of men, and when the skies
With genial rains will bless the husbandman,
Or vex the earth with hail. Thy favor can
The life of those well loved by thee prolong,
And make hoar Eld youthful again and strong.
Oh, come to us! while glittering with dew
Young Day still crimsons the horizon's blue!
Come, Parthenos! to thy beloved home,
Nor longer idly roam,
Where hungry oceans foam,
Round barbarous continents and islands new.
III.
Oh, come not to us, clad in armor bright,Intolerable unto mortal sight,
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Crested with griffin-guarded sphynx! nor hold
Thine aegis, blazing with Medusa's eyes,
Wreathed with live serpents! Not in warlike guise,
As when against the Giants thou didst march,
With strong tread shaking earth and the sky's great arch,
Terrific in thy panoply of war,
Jove's lightning in thy right hand flashing far;
Till, struck with fear and overpowering dread,
Heaven's baffled adversaries howling fled!
Come in thy garb of peace, with kindly smile,
Breathing new beauty on thy flowery isle;
With mystic veil over thy dazzling brow,
And soft feet, whiter than the mountain-snow!
Come to us over the exulting sea,
From thy Tegaean shrine in Arcady;
Thy sacred dragon gliding o'er the waves,
While nymphs, emerging from deep ocean-caves,
Floating like stars upon the misty spray,
Carol around thee many a pleasant lay;
And grim Poseidon, smiling at the strain,
Gives thee glad welcome to his vast domain;
And Aiolos bears incense from the shores,
Where the mad Ganges roars,
And his great torrent pours
I' th' Indian sea, and all the trees rich odors rain.
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IV.
Thou who the daring Argonauts didst guideOver the stormy sea's rebellious tide;
By Lemnos and by sunny Samothrace,
(Fair isles, that sit the waves with swan-like grace,)
By Troas and the dark Symplegades;
And send them, with a favorable breeze,
Through the wide Euxine into Colchis; hear!
Oh, Virgin Goddess! and come smiling near,
While here we wait upon the silver sands,
And stretch imploringly our suppliant hands!
Then shall our maidens, of long summer eves,
Embowered among the overshading leaves,
(While, taught of thee, their sweet task they fulfill,
Plying the distaff with a curious skill,)
Tell of the time, when, brighter than a star,
Approaching on the azure sea afar,
Thou didst our humble ceremonies bless,
And smile upon their budding loveliness,—
When new flowers sprang in every sunny vale,
New odors loaded every pleasant gale,
And whiter corn, and richer wine and oil,
Thenceforward paid the husbandman's glad toil;
And blander breezes, and serener skies
Thereafter blessed the isle. Oh, good and wise!
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Glide mournfully away,
Fading to evening gray,
And thou not deign to glad our anxious, longing eyes?
1845.
No. 10. TO HERMĒS.
I.
Hear, white-winged Messenger! If thy swift feetLoiter within Heaven's starry walls, where meet
The Gods, their nectar daintily to sip
At indolent leisure; where thy beardless lip
Utters such eloquence, that thine old foe,
Imperial Here, doth her hate forego,
And hang entranced on thy sweet accents, while
Cypria rewards thee with inviting smile,
And wise Athene's cup stands waiting by,
Till thou hast ended;—whether, near the sky,
Among the palpitating stars thou soarest,
Or foldest thy bright pinions in some forest
That crowns an Asian mountain;—if thy wings
Fan the broad sea, where sultry Afric flings
His hot breath on the waters, by the shore
Of Araby the blest; or in the roar
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Thy winged course to us! Leave the rough surge,
Or icy mountain-height, or city proud,
Or haughty temple, or dim wood, down-bowed
With weakening age,
And come to us, thou young and mighty Sage!
II.
Thou who invisably dost ever standNear each high orator, and hand-in-hand
With golden-robed Apollon, touch the tongue
Of the rapt poet; on whom men have hung,
Strangely enchanted, when, in dark disguise,
Thou hast descended from cloud-curtained skies,
And lifted up thy voice to teach bold men
Thy world-arousing art! Oh thou, that when
The ocean was untracked, didst teach them send
Great ships upon it! Thou, who dost extend,
In storm or calm, protection to the hopes
Of the fair merchant! Thou, that on the slopes
Of Mount Kullene first mad'st sound the lyre
And the delicious harp,—with childish fire
And magical beauty playing, in dark caves
Marvellous tunes, unlike the ruder staves
That Pan had uttered; while each wondering Nymph
Came out from tree and mountain, and the lymph
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That over the entranced woods did float,
With fine clear tone,
Like silver trumpets on a still lake blown.
III.
Thou matchless Artist! Thou, whose wonderous skill,In ages past the earth's wide bounds did fill
With every usefullness! 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! Mischievous, mad sprite!
Young Rogue-God Hermes! always glad to cheat
All Gods and men;—with mute and noiseless feet
Going in search of mischief; now to steal
The spear of Ares, now to clog the wheel
Of young Apollon's car, that it may crawl
Most slowly upwards! Thou, whom wrestlers call,
Whether they strive upon the level green
At dewy nightfall, under the dim screen
Of ancient oaks, or at the sacred games,
In fiercer 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,
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His fresh-reaped honors! Let us ever be
Under thy care,
And hear, oh hear, our solemn, earnest prayer.
1829.
No. 11. TO FLORA.
I.
Hear, lovely Chloris, while we sing to thee!Thou restest now beneath some shady tree,
Near a swift brook, upon a mossy root;
All other winds with deep delight are mute,
While Euros frolics with thy flowing hair,
A thousand odors floating on the air,
And rippling softly through the dewy green
Of the thick leaves, that murmuringly screen
Thy snowy forehead. Struggling through their mass,
The quivering sunlight snows upon the grass
In golden flakes. Round thee a thousand flowers,
Still glittering with the tears of Spring's light showers,
Offer the incense of their glad perfume
To thee, who makest them to bud and bloom,
With thy kind smile and influence divine.
Thine arms around young Zephuros entwine,
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On his white shoulder rests thy lovely head;
Thy deep eyes gaze in his,
Radiant with mute, unutterable bliss,
And, happy there,
Oh, lovely, young, enamored pair,
Your rosy lips oft meet in many a long, warm kiss!
II.
Now the young Spring rejoices, and is glad,In her new robes of starry blossoms clad;
The happy earth smiles like an innocent bride,
That sitteth, blushing, by her husband's side;
The bird her nest with earnest patience weaves,
And sings, delighted, hidden in the leaves;
From their high homes in cavernous old trees,
The busy legions of industrious bees
Drink nectar at each flower's enamelled brim,
Breathing in murmured music their glad hymn;
The Nereids come from their deep ocean-caves,
Deserting for a time the saddened waves;
The Druads from the dusky solitudes,
Of venerable and majestic woods;
The Naiads from deep beech-embowered lakes;
The Oreads from where hoarse Thunder shakes
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And blushing lawns, when first the darkness fades,
Before the crimsoning morn,
And ere the young Day's sapphire tints are gone,
In glad haste all,
Their lovers to enwreathe withal,
Gather the fresh-blown flowers, gemmed with the tears of Dawn.
III.
Come, gentle Queen! we spill to thee no blood;Thine altar stands where the gray, ancient wood,
Now green with leaves, and fresh with April rains,
In stately circle sweeping round, contains,
Embowered like a hill-environed dell,
A quiet lawn, whose undulations swell
Green as the sea-waves. Near a bubbling spring,
Whose waters, sparkling downward, lightly wring
On the small pebbles—round whose grassy lip
The birds and bees its crystal waters sip—
Thine altar stands, of shrubs and flowering vines,
Where rose with lilly and carnation twines.
We burn to thee no incense. These fresh blooms,
Breathe on the air more exquisite perfumes,
Than all that press the overladen wind
That seaward floats from Araby to Ind.
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But fair young girls, with mischievous, bright eyes,
With white flowers garlanded,
And by their young, delighted lovers led,
With frequent kisses,
And fond and innocent caresses,
To honor thee, the victim and the priest instead.
1845.
No. 12. TO HUPNOS.
I.
Kind Comforter of all the weary Gods,With drooping eyelids, head that ever nods!
Thou silent soother, that with all thy train
Of empty dreams, dim tenants of the brain,
Vague as the wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave,
At whose mouth sluggishly white poppies wave,
In the light airs that saunter by thy bed,—
Thine only throne, with darkness tenanted,
And curtains black as are the eyes of Night!—
Thou, who dost sleep, when wanes the reluctant light,
Deep in lone forests, where gray Evening hides,
Trembling at sight of the sun; and Shadow glides
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Thou dozest on the margin of some lake,
Land-locked, and still as the mute, cloudless sky;
While thy quaint Dreams, wayward and wanton, fly,
With mischievous pranks, fantastic tricks, mad mirth,
About the sluggard, Earth:
Oh, come, and hear the hymn that we are chanting,—
Here, where the shivered star light through thick leaves is slanting!
II.
Thou lover of the banks of idle streams,Shadowed by broad old oaks, with scattered gleams
From moon and stars upon them;—of the ocean,
When its great bosom throbs with no emotion,
But the round moon hangs out her lamp, to pour
A sparkling glory on its level floor!
Thou, that reclinest on the moist, warm sands,
While winds come dancing from far southern lands,
With dreams upon their backs, and wings that reek
And drip with odors; or upon a peak
Of cloud, that, like a hill of chrysolite,
Leans on the western sky, when the bland night
Comes late in summer; or beneath the sea,
Scarce conscious of the dim monotony
Of the great waves, here murmuring like the wings
Of swarming dreams, while the huge ocean swings
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(As, chained upon his bed,
A conquered Titan, with unconscious motion,—
Even so respiring swings the mute and sleeping ocean.)
III.
Thou who dost bless sad mourners with thy touch,And make sharp Agony relax his clutch
Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart,
Pale Disappointment no more mope apart,
And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep
Her life away, gaining new cheer in sleep!
Thou who dost bless the birds, at evening gray,
When, tired of singing all the summer day,
They, longing, watch to see the evening star,—
Thy herald,—on the sky's blue slope! Where are
Thy flocks of fitting dream, dear God, by whom
All noise is most abhorred? Come to this gloom,
So cool, so fresh, where nought the silence stirs,
Except the murmur of the dreaming firs!
Touch our tired eyes! Make the dusk shades more dense!
Ah! thou hast come! We feel thine influence,
Forget our hymn, and sink in sleep away;
And so, till new-born Day
Climbs high in heaven, with fire-steeds swiftly leaping,
Here we'll recline, beneath the vine-leaves calmly sleeping.
1830.
| Gen. Albert Pike's poems | |