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With dim eyes at the moon—(ah! so dost thou Full oft quench brightness !)-VENUS, whether
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-
And, with half-open eye,
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) O, come, and ere our festival be done,
Our new loves bless!
0, thou who once didst weep, and with sad tears
Come on the odorous air ;
All love-sick care !
Lo, we have many kinds of incense here
0, goddess, hear our words ! And hither turn, with thine own matchless grace,
Thy white-wing'd birds.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
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,