Thus the goddess wailed on--and the Loves are lamenting. VI. Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead. She wept tear after tear with the blood which was shed, And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden-close, Her tears, to the windflower; his blood, to the rose. VII. I mourn for Adonis--Adonis is dead. Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, thy lover! So, well: make a place for his corse in thy bed, With the purples thou sleepest in, under and over He's fair though a corse--a fair corse, like a sleeper. Lay him soft in the silks he had pleasure to fold When, beside thee at night, holy dreams deep and deeper Enclosed his young life on the couch made of gold. Love him still, poor Adonis; cast on him together The crowns and the flowers: since he died from the place, Why, let all die with him; let the blossoms go wither, Rain myrtles and olive-buds down on his face. Rain the myrrh down, let all that is best fall a-pining, Since the myrrh of his life from thy keeping is swept. Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples reclining, The Loves raised their voices around him and wept. They have shorn their bright curls off to cast on Adonis; One treads on his bow,--on his arrows, another,-- One breaks up a well-feathered quiver, and one is Bent low at a sandal, untying the strings, And one carries the vases of gold from the springs, While one washes the wound,--and behind them a brother Fans down on the body sweet air with his wings. VIII. Cytherea herself now the Loves are lamenting Each torch at the door Hymenæus blew out; And, the marriage-wreath dropping its leaves as repenting, No more "Hymen, Hymen," is chanted about, But the _ai ai_ instead--"Ai alas!" is begun For Adonis, and then follows "Ai Hymenæus!" The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' son, Sobbing low each to each, "His fair eyes cannot see us!" Their wail strikes more shrill than the sadder Dioné's. The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, Adonis, Deep chanting; he hears not a word that they say: He _would_ hear, but Persephoné has him in keeping. --Cease moan, Cytherea! leave pomps for to-day, And weep new when a new year refits thee for weeping. A VISION OF POETS O Sacred Essence, lighting me this hour, How may I lightly stile thy great power? _Echo._ Power. Power! but of whence? under the greenwood spraye? Or liv'st in Heaven? saye. _Echo._ In Heavens aye. In Heavens aye! tell, may I it obtayne By alms, by fasting, prayer,--by paine? _Echo._ By paine Show me the paine, it shall be undergone. I to mine end will still go on. _Echo._ Go on. _Britannia's Pastorals._ A VISION OF POETS.