My Goddess

SAY, which Immortal

Merits the highest reward?

With none contend I,

But I will give it

To the aye-changing,

Ever-moving

Wondrous daughter of Jove.

His best-beloved offspring.

Sweet Phantasy.

For unto her

Hath he granted

All the fancies which erst

To none allow'd he

Saving himself;

Now he takes his pleasure

In the mad one.

She may, crowned with roses,

With staff twined round with lilies,

Roam thro' flow'ry valleys,

Rule the butterfly-people,

And soft-nourishing dew

With bee-like lips

Drink from the blossom:

Or else she may

With fluttering hair

And gloomy looks

Sigh in the wind

Round rocky cliffs,

And thousand-hued.

Like morn and even.

Ever changing,

Like moonbeam's light,

To mortals appear.

Let us all, then,

Adore the Father!

The old, the mighty,

Who such a beauteous

Ne'er-fading spouse

Deigns to accord

To perishing mortals!

To us alone

Doth he unite her,

With heavenly bonds,

While he commands her,

in joy and sorrow,

As a true spouse

Never to fly us.

All the remaining

Races so poor

Of life-teeming earth.

In children so rich.

Wander and feed

In vacant enjoyment,

And 'mid the dark sorrows

Of evanescent

Restricted life,—

Bow'd by the heavy

Yoke of Necessity.

But unto us he

Hath his most versatile,

Most cherished daughter

Granted,—what joy!

Lovingly greet her

As a beloved one!

Give her the woman's

Place in our home!

And oh, may the aged

Stepmother Wisdom

Her gentle spirit

Ne'er seek to harm!

Yet know I her sister,

The older, sedater,

Mine own silent friend;

Oh, may she never,

Till life's lamp is quench'd,

Turn away from me,—

That noble inciter,

Comforter,—Hope!