A Sicilian Story With Diego de Montilla, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter]. Second Edition |
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Hymn.
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 | A Sicilian Story |  |
Hymn.
Dian!—We seek thee in this tranquil hour;
We call thee by thy names of power;
Lucina! first, (that tender name divine,
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!
We call thee by thy names of power;
Lucina! first, (that tender name divine,
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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.
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,
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.
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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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.
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:
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.
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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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.
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.
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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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.
| A Sicilian Story | |