But from out the golden strings Lures Apollo harmony, Measured time's sweet murmurings, And the might of melody. The Camoenae swell the strain With their song of ninefold tone: Captive bound in music's chain, Softly stone unites to stone. Cybele, with skilful hand, Open throws the wide-winged door; Locks and bolts by her are planned, Sure to last forevermore. Soon complete the wondrous halls By the gods' own hands are made, And the temple's glowing walls Stand in festal pomp arrayed. With a crown of myrtle twined, Now the goddess queen comes there, And she leads the fairest hind To the shepherdess most fair. Venus, with her beauteous boy, That first pair herself attires; All the gods bring gifts of joy, Blessing their love's sacred fires. Guided by the deities, Soon the new-born townsmen pour, Ushered in with harmonies, Through the friendly open door. Holding now the rites divine, Ceres at Zeus' altar stands,-- Blessing those around the shrine, Thus she speaks, with folded hands:-- "Freedom's love the beast inflames, And the god rules free in air, While the law of Nature tames Each wild lust that lingers there. Yet, when thus together thrown, Man with man must fain unite; And by his own worth alone Can he freedom gain, and might." Wreathe in a garland the corn's golden ear! With it, the Cyane blue intertwine! Rapture must render each glance bright and clear, For the great queen is approaching her shrine,-- She who our homesteads so blissful has given, She who has man to his fellow-man bound: Let our glad numbers extol then to heaven, Her who the earth's kindly mother is found! THE RING OF POLYCRATES. [32] A BALLAD. Upon his battlements he stood, And downward gazed in joyous mood, On Samos' Isle, that owned his sway, "All this is subject to my yoke;" To Egypt's monarch thus he spoke,-- "That I am truly blest, then, say!" "The immortals' favor thou hast known! Thy sceptre's might has overthrown All those who once were like to thee. Yet to avenge them one lives still; I cannot call thee blest, until That dreaded foe has ceased to be." While to these words the king gave vent, A herald from Miletus sent, Appeared before the tyrant there: "Lord, let thy incense rise to-day, And with the laurel branches gay Thou well may'st crown thy festive hair!" "Thy foe has sunk beneath the spear,-- I'm sent to bear the glad news here, By thy true marshal Polydore"-- Then from a basin black he takes-- The fearful sight their terror wakes-- A well-known head, besmeared with gore.