"Oh! thou art beautiful, howe'er it be,
Huntress or Dian, or whatever named;
And he the veriest pagan, that first framed
His silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee."
Have we not sung oft that strophe of Ben Jonson's, full of inexpressible music to our ear?
"Lay thy bow of pearl apart
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever,
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!"
and the beloved rhymeless cadence of old Jasper Fisher's drama, beginning:—
"Thou queen of Heaven, commandress of the deep,
Lady of lakes, regent of woods and deer."
Sidney, Drummond, Milton, glorified your wanderings. And your truest votary, one John Keats, spake out boldly that
——"the oldest shade midst oldest trees
Feels palpitations when thou lookest in."
You are an incorrigible charmer: but as he reports you likewise as
——"a relief
To the poor, patient oyster, where he sleeps
Within his pearly house,"