A Hymn to the Moon
The Moon, now, Muses, teach me to resound,
Whose wide wings measure such a world of ground;
Jove’s daughter, deck’d with the mellifluous tongue,
And seen in all the sacred art of song.
Whose deathless brows when she from heaven displays,
All earth she wraps up in her orient rays.
A heaven of ornament in earth is rais’d
When her beams rise. The subtle air is sais’d
Of delicate splendour from her crown of gold.
And when her silver bosom is extoll’d,
Wash’d in the ocean, in day’s equall’d noon
Is midnight seated; but when she puts on
Her far-off-sprinkling-lustre evening weeds,
(The month is two cut; her high-breasted steeds
Man’d all with curl’d flames, put in coach and all,
Her huge orb fill’d,) her whole trims then exhale
Unspeakable splendours from the glorious sky.
And out of that state mortal men imply
Many predictions. And with her then,
In love mix’d, lay the King of Gods and men;
By whom made fruitful, she Pandea bore,
And added her state to th’ Immortal Store.
Hail, Queen, and Goddess, th’ ivory-wristed Moon
Divine, prompt, fair-hair’d! With thy grace begun,
My Muse shall forth, and celebrate the praise
Of men whose states the Deities did raise
To semi-deities; whose deeds t’ endless date
Muse-lov’d and sweet-sung poets celebrate.