HOMER'S HYMN TO THE MOON DAUGHTERS of Jove, whose voice is melody, But when the Moon divine from Heaven is gone The beam-invested steeds whose necks on high 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 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, 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, Nor thou nor other songs shall unremembered be. O BACCHUS, what a world of toil, both now 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! The Cyclops. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, dated 1819. Leaning upon their oars, with splash and strain Of Bacchic sports, sweet dance and melody, Young things themselves, tend on the youngling sheep, But I remain to fill the water casks, Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it! CHORUS OF SATYRS STROPHE Where has he of race divine Wandered in the winding rocks? |