Poems (Loveman)/Ode to Ceres
ODE TO CERES.
I.
Sweet Mother, saffron-haired and argent-eyed,
That holdst four seasons in thy mellowing hand;
Foison and plenty on thy measur'd side,
Wisdom and warmth at thy uncurbed command;
That with braced breath at dusky-veined eve,
Stirrest the furrow and the winnowing wain,
What time with fragrant finger thou let'st fall,
Soft-shining from the pressure of thy sieve,
A dew ambrosial—
Bow thy dim head, withhold thy golden rain.
That holdst four seasons in thy mellowing hand;
Foison and plenty on thy measur'd side,
Wisdom and warmth at thy uncurbed command;
That with braced breath at dusky-veined eve,
Stirrest the furrow and the winnowing wain,
What time with fragrant finger thou let'st fall,
Soft-shining from the pressure of thy sieve,
A dew ambrosial—
Bow thy dim head, withhold thy golden rain.
II.
Not aegis-bearing Jove with gulfy might,
Nor great-eyed Juno, deathless and divine,
Hold half the grace, kind Mother, half the light,
Enkindled in the splendour of thy sign;
Our fallows coucht with oxen serve thy haste,
Consume them not but lend thy pitying heart;
Fountful thy wheaten measure, choose our seed,
And when the north with reedy rein lays waste
Moist hill and ample mart,
Shelter us with thy azure robe at need.
Not aegis-bearing Jove with gulfy might,
Nor great-eyed Juno, deathless and divine,
Hold half the grace, kind Mother, half the light,
Enkindled in the splendour of thy sign;
Our fallows coucht with oxen serve thy haste,
Consume them not but lend thy pitying heart;
Fountful thy wheaten measure, choose our seed,
And when the north with reedy rein lays waste
Moist hill and ample mart,
Shelter us with thy azure robe at need.
III.
O love divine! O deep immortal grief!
Still dost thou yearn for Enna's dewy fields?
Thine, thine the rapture whence each budding leaf,
Bespeaks the favour that thy blest bed yields.
O Mother, great bright Mother, let thy light
Shine on us with the wisdom of thy girth,
Clip close our sheaves, o'erbrim our fruitful herd
Sacred and silver-bright,
And make and purge with thy most-weighty word,
The rich divinity of this swart earth.
Still dost thou yearn for Enna's dewy fields?
Thine, thine the rapture whence each budding leaf,
Bespeaks the favour that thy blest bed yields.
O Mother, great bright Mother, let thy light
Shine on us with the wisdom of thy girth,
Clip close our sheaves, o'erbrim our fruitful herd
Sacred and silver-bright,
And make and purge with thy most-weighty word,
The rich divinity of this swart earth.
