Albert Pike

Hymns to the Gods - No. 5

TO APHRODITE

I.

Oh, thou most lovely and most beautiful!—
Wherever cooingly thy white doves lull
Thy bright eyes to soft slumber; whether on
The truant south-wind floating, or if gone
To some still cloud in dreamy sleep that swings,
And there reclining, while its snowy wings
Blush into crimson: whether thy delicate wheels,
Over green sward that scarce the pressure feels,
Brush the bright dewdrops from the bending grass,
Leaving the poor, green blades to look, alas!
With dim eyes at the moon,— (Ah! so dost thou
Dim other eyes and brighter!) — whether now
Thou floatest over the sea, while each white wing
Of thy fair doves is wet, and 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 cruel and strong thou art!)

II.

Hear, 'Aphrodite! Hear our rustic song!
Thalassia, hear! for unto thee belong
All pleasant offerings; ring-doves coo to thee,
While they entwine their arch'd necks lovingly,
Among the murmuring leaves; thine are all sounds
Of pleasure on the earth; and where abounds
Most happiness, for thee we surely look.—
In the dusk depths of some leaf-shaded nook
Thou hidest frequently, where soft winds wave
Thy sunny curls, and cool airs fondly lave
Thy radiant brow, and ruffle the delicate wings
Of thy tired doves; where his quaint love-tale sings,
With small, bright eyes, some little, strange, sweet bird,
In notes that never but by thee are heard.—
In some such spot dreaming thou liest now,
And with half-open eye,
Drinkest in beauty. Fairest of heaven, do thou
Hear kindly our faint cry!

III.

Doris! from whom all things upon this earth
Take light and life; for whom even laughing Mirth
Doubles his glee; thou, whom the joyous bird
Continually sings; whose name is heard
In every pleasant noise; at whose warm glance
All things look brighter; for whom wine doth dance
More merrily within the agate vase,
To meet thy lip; glimpsing at whose sweet face,
Joy leaps on faster, with a clearer laugh,
And Sorrow flings into the sea his staff,
And tossing back the hair from his dim eyes,
Looks up again to long-forgotten skies;
While Avarice forgets to count his gold,
And even offers thee his wealth untold,
Dear as his heart's blood. Thou to whose high might
All things are glad to bow,
Come unto us, and with thy looks of light,
Bless and console us now!

IV.

Hear us, 'Ourania! Thou whom all obey!
At whose sweet will rough Satyrs leave their play,
And gather wild-flowers to adorn the hair
Of the young nymphs, and nuts and berries bear
To those they fancy most. Paphia, to whom
They leap in awkward mood through the dusk gloom
Of darkening oak-trees, or at sunny noon
Play unto thee, on their rude pipes, a tune
Of wondrous languishment! Thou, whose great power
Brings up young sea-maids from each ocean-bower,
With many an idle song to sing to thee,
And bright locks floating mist-like on the sea,
And glancing eyes, as if in distant caves
They spied their lovers,—(so along blue waves
Small bubbles flit, mocking the genial sun —
Let cares no more oppress
Thy servitors! but, ere our feast is done,
Our new loves kindly bless!

V.

Oh, thou who once didst weep, and with sad tears
Bedew the pitying woods! by those great fears
That haunted thee when young Adonis lay
With dark eyes drowned in death;—by that dull day
That saw him, wounded, fall, with many a moan,
On the dead leaves, and sadly and alone
Breathe out his life;—deign thou to look upon
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 beautiful and bright-eyed doves,
Fanning the breathless air. Let all the Loves
Fly round thy chariot, with sweet, low songs
Murmuring upon their lips. Come! each maid longs
For thy fair presence, Goddess of true Love!
Float through the odorous air,
And, as thy light wheels roll, from us remove
Sadness and love-sick care.

VI.

Lo! we have many kinds of incense here,
To burn to thee; wine as the sunshine clear,
Fit for young Bacchos; flowers we have here, too,
Gathered by star-light, when the morning-dew
Was fresh upon them; myrtle-wreaths we bear,
To place upon thy bright, luxuriant hair,
And shade thy temples. 'Tis the proper time
For all fair beauty. Thou, who lovest the clime
Of our dear isle, where roses bud and blow
With honey in their bosoms, and a glow
Like thine own cheek, lifting their modest heads,
To be refreshed with the transparent beads
Of diamond dew, paling the young moon's rays,—
Our altars burn for thee, and on the blaze]
We pour rich incense from great golden vases.
Queen Cypria! hear our words,
And hither urge, circled with all the Graces,
Thy team of snow-winged birds!