A Sicilian Story :: :: University of Virginia Library

First Shepherd.
Come hither shepherds. See, Apollo dies.
Some hours ago and who so bright as he?
His proud smile turn'd the waves to silver, and
The half-ripe fruit vermilion'd: It drew sweets
From herb and flower, and on the living earth
Shower'd beauty. Man was pleas'd and laugh'd to find
His blood run quicker and his heart grow warm,
And maids grew joyous, for they knew their cheeks
Wore then a livelier red: and see, he dies.

Second Shepherd.
But we must now forget him; for behold,
Dian is coming. Mark!

First Shepherd.
How fierce she glares!
Thus when in angry mood she stretches forth
Her arm above the waters, doth she look;
And as she bares her breast the wanton waves
Rebel 'gainst Neptune's mastery, and leap up
Far as their silver chains will reach, to do
The night-queen homage. Then, the mariner
Who hath forgot his home-confined bride,
And maid whose thoughts were not of chastity,
The merchant who hath ventures on the sea
And never prayed her help against the storms,
Do feel her wrath.

Second Shepherd.
Look! who is there, Alexas—
There, tow'rd the East?

First Shepherd.
Oh! Pan is by yonder brook:

Thus ever thro' the heats of Summer he
Offers his steaming incense to the moon;
For which she chafes his burning brow, and gives
To his parch'd herbs a freshness. Every thing
That owns his sway then honours her: rivers which
Grew hot i' the sun and silent slipp'd away,
Resume their natural pow'rs and celebrate
With music the first coming of the night.
The solemn owl speaks and the crickets sing,
And from the springing grass there comes a noise,
As tho' to tell that the earth slumbered not.
The nightingale alone seems to complain,
Yet sweetly, and the wanton Zephyrus steals
Rustling amongst the forest leaves, and plays
With the young buds and from the hawthorn branch
Shakes half its bloom—but she unclouds her brow,
And looks propitious. Kneel, ye virgins, kneel!
And stretch your white arms tow'rd the bright'ning sky,
And sing the hymn to Dian. Goddess, hear!

Hymn.

Dian!—We seek thee in this tranquil hour;
We call thee by thy names of power;
Lucina! first, (that tender name divine,

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Which young and travail'd dames adore and fear)
Child of the dark-brow'd Proserpine!
Star-crowned Dian! Daughter of Jove
Olympian! Mother of blind Love!
Fair Cynthia! Towered Cybele!
Lady of stainless chastity!

Bend low thy listening ear,
And smile upon us now the long day's toil,
Beautiful queen! is done,
And from the withering sun
Save thou and bless the parch'd and fainting soil;
So may thy silver shafts ne'er miss their aim,
But strike the heart of every bounding fawn,
And not a nymph of thine e'er lose her fame
By loitering in the beechen glades,
Or standing, with her mantle half undrawn,
Like listening Silence, near the skirting shades
Of forests, where the satyrs lie
Sleeping with upward face, or piping musically.

Oh! smile upon us Dian! smile as thou
Art wont, 'tis said, at times to look upon
Thy own pale boy, Endymion,
When he sleeps calmly on the mountain's brow:
And may no doubt nor care,

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When thou shalt wish, on nights serene and still,
To stay thy car upon the Latmos' hill,
Touch with a clouded hand thy look of light,
Nor elemental blight
Mar the rich beauties of thy hyacinthine hair.

Queen of the tumbling floods! oh lend thine ear
To us who seek and praise thee here.
Fright not the Halcyon from her watery nest,
When on the scarcely-moving waves she sits
Listening, sore distrest
Lest that the winds, in sullen fits
Should come and lift the curling seas on high:
Yet, if the storm must come—then Dian! then
Scatter the billows from the Delphic shore,
And bid the monsters of the deep go roar
Where the wild Scylla howls and raves,
Hard by those foreign caves
Sicilian, dug, 'tis said, by giant men
Beneath Pelorus' rugged promontory.

On thy white altar we
Lavish in fond idolatry,
Herbs and rich flowers such as the summer uses:
Some that in wheaten fields
Lift their red bells amidst the golden grain:

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Some that the moist earth yields,
Beneath the shadows of those pine trees high,
Which, branching, shield the far Thessalian plains
From the fierce anger of Apollo's eye,
And some that Delphic swains
Pluck by the silver springs of Castaly.
Yet, there (thus it is said) the wanton Muses,
Their dark and tangled locks adorning,
Lie stretch'd on green slopes 'neath the laurel boughs,
Or weave sad garlands for their brows;
And tho' they shun thee thro' the livelong night,
Bend their bright eyes before the God of morning,
And hail with shouts his first return of light.

Now and for ever hail, great Dian!—Thou,
Before whose moony brow
The rolling planets die, or lose their fires,
And all the bravery of Heaven retires.
There Saturn dimly turns within his ring,
And Jove looks pale upon his burning throne;
There the great hunter-king,
Orion, mourns with watery glare,
The tarnished lustre of his blazing zone:
Thou only, through the blue and starry air,
In unabated beauty rid'st along,
Companion'd by our song.

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Turn hither, then, thy clear and stedfast smile,
To grace our humble welcoming,
And may thy poet's brain
Be free from all but that so famous pain
Which sometimes, at the still midnight,
Stirs his creative fancyings, while,
(Charmed by thy silver light)
He strives, not vainly then, his sweetest song to sing.