A Hymn to Bacchus, or the Pirates
Of Dionysus, noble Semele’s Son,
I now intend to render mention,
As on a prominent shore his person shone,
Like to a youth whose flow’r was newly blown,
Bright azure tresses play’d about his head,
And on his bright broad shoulders was dispread
A purple mantle. Strait he was descried
By certain manly pirates, that applied
Their utmost speed to prise him, being aboard
A well-built bark, about whose broad sides roar’d
The wine-black Tyrrhene billows; death as black
Brought them upon him in their future wrack.
For, soon as they had purchas’d but his view,
Mutual signs past them, and ashore they flew,
Took him, and brought him instantly aboard,
Soothing their hopes to have obtain’d a hoard
Of riches with him; and a Jove-kept king
To such a flow’r must needs be natural spring.
And therefore straight strong fetters they must fetch,
To make him sure. But no such strength would stretch
To his constrain’d pow’rs. Far flew all their bands
From any least force done his feet or hands.
But he sat casting smiles from his black eyes
At all their worst. At which discoveries
Made by the master, he did thus dehort
All his associates: “Wretches! Of what sort
Hold ye the person ye assay to bind?
Nay, which of all the Pow’r fully-divin’d
Esteem ye him, whose worth yields so much weight
That not our well-built bark will bear his freight?
Or Jove himself he is, or He that bears
The silver bow, or Neptune. Nor appears
In him the least resemblance of a man,
But of a strain at least Olympian.
Come! Make we quick dismission of his state,
And on the black-soil’d earth exonerate
Our sinking vessel of his deified load,
Nor dare the touch of an intangible God,
Lest winds outrageous, and of wrackful scathe,
And smoking tempests, blow his fiery wrath.”
This well-spoke master the tall captain gave
Hateful and horrible language; call’d him slave,
And bade him mark the prosp’rous gale that blew,
And how their vessel with her mainsail flew;
Bade all take arms, and said, their works requir’d
The cares of men, and not of an inspir’d
Pure zealous master; his firm hopes being fir’d
With this opinion, that they should arrive
In Ægypt straight, or Cyprus, or where live
Men whose brave breaths above the north wind blow;
Yea, and perhaps beyond their region too.
And that he made no doubt but in the end
To make his prisoner tell him every friend
Of all his offspring, brothers, wealth, and all;
Since that prise, certain, must some God let fall.
This said, the mast and mainsail up he drew,
And in the mainsail’s midst a frank gale blew;
When all his ship took arms to brave their prise.
But straight strange works appear’d to all their eyes:
First, sweet wine through their swift-black bark did flow,
Of which the odours did a little blow
Their fiery spirits, making th’ air so fine
That they in flood were there as well as wine.
A mere immortal-making savour rose,
Which on the air the Deity did impose.
The seamen see’ng all, admiration seiz’d;
Yet instantly their wonders were increas’d,
For on the topsail there ran, here and there,
A vine that grapes did in abundance bear,
And in an instant was the ship’s mainmast
With an obscure-green ivy’s arms embrac’d,
That flourish’d straight, and were with berries grac’d;
Of which did garlands circle every brow
Of all the pirates, and no one knew how.
Which when they saw, they made the master steer
Out to the shore; whom Bacchus made forbear,
With showing more wonders. On the hatches He
Appear’d a terrible lion, horribly
Roaring; and in the mid-deck a male bear,
Made with a huge mane; making all, for fear,
Crowd to the stern, about the master there,
Whose mind he still kept dauntless and sincere,
But on the captain rush’d and ramp’d, with force
So rude and sudden, that his main recourse
Was to the main-sea straight: and after him
Leapt all his mates, as trusting to their swim
To fly foul death; but so found what they fled,
Being all to dolphins metamorphosed.
The master he took ruth of, sav’d, and made
The blessed’st man that ever tried his trade,
These few words giving him: “Be confident,
Thou God-inspired pilot, in the bent
Of my affection, ready to requite
Thy late-to-me-intended benefit.
I am the roaring God of spritely wine,
Whom Semele (that did even Jove incline
To amorous mixture, and was Cadmus’ care)
Made issue to the mighty Thunderer.”
And thus, all excellence of grace to thee,
Son of sweet-count’nance-carry’ng Semele.
I must not thee forget in least degree,
But pray thy spirit to render so my song
Sweet, and all ways in order’d fury strong.
A Hymn to Mars
Mars, most-strong, gold-helm’d, making chariots crack;
Never without a shield cast on thy back;
Mind-master, town-guard, with darts never driven;
Strong-handed, all arms, fort, and fence of heaven;
Father of victory with fair strokes given;
Joint surrogate of justice, lest she fall
In unjust strifes a tyrant; general
Only of just men justly; that dost bear
Fortitude’s sceptre, to heaven’s fiery sphere
Giver of circular motion, between
That and the Pleiads that still wand’ring been,
Where thy still-vehemently-flaming horse
About the third heaven make their fiery course;
Helper of mortals; hear!—As thy fires give
The fair and present boldnesses that strive
In youth for honour, being the sweet-beam’d light
That darts into their lives, from all their height,
The fortitudes and fortunes found in fight;
So would I likewise wish to have the pow’r
To keep off from my head thy bitter hour,
And that false fire, cast from my soul’s low kind,
Stoop to the fit rule of my highest mind,
Controlling that so eager sting of wrath
That stirs me on still to that horrid scathe
Of war, that God still sends to wreak his spleen
(Even by whole tribes) of proud injurious men.
But O thou Ever-Blessed! give me still
Presence of mind to put in act my will,
Varied, as fits, to all occasion;
And to live free, unforc’d, unwrought upon,
Beneath those laws of peace that never are
Affected with pollutions popular
Of unjust hurt, or loss to anyone;
And to bear safe the burthen undergone
Of foes inflexive, and inhuman hates,
Secure from violent and harmful fates.
A Hymn to Diana
Diana praise, Muse, that in darts delights,
Lives still a maid, and had nutritial rights
With her born-brother, the far-shooting Sun.
That doth her all-of-gold-made chariot run
In chase of game, from Meles that abounds
In black-brow’d bulrushes, and, where her hounds
She first uncouples, joining there her horse,
Through Smyrna carried in most fiery course
To grape-rich Claros; where (ill his rich home,
And constant expectation She will come)
Sits Phœbus, that the silver bow doth bear,
To meet with Phœbe, that doth darts transfer
As far as He his shafts. As far then be
Thy chaste fame shot, O Queen of archery!
Sacring my song to every Deity.
A Hymn to Venus (Third Hymn)
To Cyprian Venus still my verses vow,
Who gifts as sweet as honey doth bestow
On all mortality; that ever smiles,
And rules a face that all foes reconciles;
Ever sustaining in her hand a flow’r
That all desire keeps ever in her pow’r.
Hail, then, O Queen of well-built Salamine,
And all the state that Cyprus doth confine,
Inform my song with that celestial fire
That in thy beauties kindles all desire.
So shall my Muse for ever honour thee,
And any other thou commend’st to me.