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With dim eyes at the moon (ah! so dost thou Full oft quench brightness !)--VENUS, whether

now Thou passest o'er the sea, while each light wing Of thy fair doves is wet, while 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 strong thou art.

Where'er thou art, O VENUS! hear our song-
Kind goddess, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings : bright doves coo to thee,
The while they twine their necks with quiet glee
Among the morning leaves : thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we ever look ;
Among the leaves, in dimly-lighted nook,
Most often hidest thou, where winds may wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy beaming brow, and ruffle the white wings
Of thy tired doves; and where his love-song sings,
With lightsome eyes, some little, strange, sweet

With notes that never but by thee are heard-
0, in such scene, most bright, thou liest now,

And, with half-open eye,
Drinkest in beauty-0, most fair, that thou

Wouldst hear our cry!

0, thou, through whom all things upon the earth Grow brighter: thou for whom even laughing

mirth Lengthens his note; thou whom the joyous bird Singeth continuously; whose name is heard In every pleasant sound: at whose warm glance All things look brighter : for whom wine doth

dance More merrily within the brimming vase, To meet thy lip: thou, at whose quiet pace Joy leaps on faster, with a louder laugh, And Sorrow tosses to the sea his staff, And pushes back the hair from his dim eyes, To look again upon forgotten skies; While Avarice forgets to count his guld, 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! 0, hear, great goddess ! 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: 0, 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) 0, come,

and ere our festival be done, Our new loves bless!

0, 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-0, 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 roun 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 100; 'tis now the time
Of all fair beauty : thou who lovest 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,

0, goddess, hear our words ! And hither turn, with thine own matchless grace,

Thy white-wing'd birds.



Fair Parthenon! yet still must fancy weep

For thee, thou work of nobler spirits flown, Bright as of old, the sunbeams o'er thee sleep

In all their beaut: still--and thine is gone!


Empires have sunk since thou wert first revered,

And varying rites have sanctified thy shrine. The dust is round thee of the race that reared Thy walls; and thou—their fate must soon be

thine ! But when shall earth again exult to see Visions divine, like theirs, renewed in ought like


Lone are thy pillows now-each passing gale

Sighs o'er them as a spirit's voice, which moaned That loneliness, and told the plaintive tale

Of the bright synod once above them thronea. Mourn, graceful ruin ! on thy sacred hill.

Thy gods, thy rites, a kindred fate have shared : Yet thou art honoured in each fragment still That wasting years and barbarous hands had

spared ; Each hallowed stone, from rapine's fury borne, Shall wake bright dreams of thee in ages yet


Yes; in these fragments, though by time defaced,

And rude insensate conquerors, yet remains All that may charm the enlightened eye of taste,

On shores where still inspiring freedom reigns. As vital fragrance breathes from every part

Of the crushed myrtle, or the bruised rose,

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