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HOMER'S HYMN TO THE MOON

DAUGHTERS of Jove, whose voice is melody,
Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsy,
Sing the wide-winged Moon! Around the earth,
From her immortal head in Heaven shot forth,
Far light is scattered-boundless glory springs;
Where'er she spreads her many-beaming wings,
The lampless air glows round her golden crown.

But when the Moon divine from Heaven is gone
Under the sea, her beams within abide,
Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean's tide,
Clothing her form in garments glittering far,
And having yoked to her immortal car

The beam-invested steeds whose necks on high
Curve back, she drives to a remoter sky
A western Crescent, borne impetuously.
Then is made full the circle of her light,

And as she grows, her beams more bright and bright

Are poured from Heaven, where she is hovering then,

A wonder and a sign to mortal men.

The Son of Saturn with this glorious Power Mingled in love and sleep, to whom she bore, Pandeia, a bright maid of beauty rare

Among the Gods whose lives eternal are.

Homer's Hymn to the Moon. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 18392, dated 1818.

Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed Divinity, Fair-haired and favorable! thus with thee, My song beginning, by its music sweet Shall make immortal many a glorious feat Of demigods, with lovely lips, so well

Which minstrels, servants of the Muses, tell.

HOMER'S HYMN TO THE EARTH, MOTHER OF ALL

O UNIVERSAL Mother, who dost keep
From everlasting thy foundations deep,
Eldest of things, Great Earth, I sing of thee!
All shapes that have their dwelling in the sea,
All things that fly, or on the ground divine
Live, move, and there are nourished

thine;

these are

These from thy wealth thou dost sustain; from thee Fair babes are born, and fruits on every tree

Hang ripe and large, revered Divinity!

The life of mortal men beneath thy sway Is held; thy power both gives and takes away. Happy are they whom thy mild favors nourish; All things unstinted round them grow and flourish. For them endures the life-sustaining field

Its load of harvest, and their cattle yield

Large increase, and their house with wealth is filled.

Such honored dwell in cities fair and free,
The homes of lovely women, prosperously;

Homer's Hymn to the Earth, Mother of All. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 18392, dated 1818.

Their sons exult in youth's new budding gladness, And their fresh daughters, free from care or sad

ness,

With bloom-inwoven dance and happy song,

On the soft flowers the meadow-grass among, Leap round them sporting; such delights by thee Are given, rich Power, revered Divinity.

Mother of gods, thou wife of starry Heaven,
Farewell! be thou propitious, and be given
A happy life for this brief melody,

Nor thou nor other songs shall unremembered be.

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O BACCHUS, what a world of toil, both now
And ere these limbs were overworn with age,
Have I endured for thee! First, when thou fled'st
The mountain-nymphs who nursed thee, driven

afar

By the strange madness Juno sent upon thee;

Then in the battle of the sons of Earth,

When I stood foot by foot close to thy side,

No unpropitious fellow-combatant,

And, driving through his shield my wingèd spear, Slew vast Enceladus. Consider now,

Is it a dream of which I speak to thee?

By Jove it is not, for you have the trophies!
And now I suffer more than all before.
For when I heard that Juno had devised
A tedious voyage for you, I put to sea
With all my children quaint in search of you,
And I myself stood on the beaked prow
And fixed the naked mast; and all my boys

The Cyclops. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, dated 1819.

Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain
Made white with foam the green and purple sea.
And so we sought you, king. We were sailing
Near Malea, when an eastern wind arose,
And drove us to this wild Etnean rock;
The one-eyed children of the Ocean God,
The man-destroying Cyclopses inhabit,
On this wild shore, their solitary caves,
And one of these, named Polypheme, has caught us
To be his slaves; and so, for all delight

Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody,
We keep this lawless giant's wandering flocks.
My sons indeed, on far declivities,

Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep,

But I remain to fill the water casks,

Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering
Some impious and abominable meal

To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it!
And now I must scrape up the littered floor
With this great iron rake, so to receive
My absent master and his evening sheep
In a cave neat and clean. Even now I see
My children tending the flocks hitherward.
Ha! what is this? are your Sicinnian measures
Even now the same as when with dance and song
You brought young Bacchus to Althæa's halls?

CHORUS OF SATYRS

STROPHE

Where has he of race divine

Wandered in the winding rocks?

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