[Illustration]
The mode of worship to Diana, differs in different nations. The most
celebrated of her temples was that at Ephesus, which from its grandeur and
magnificence has been placed among the seven wonders of the world, but was
burned by Erostratus, the same day that Alexander the Great was born. This
madman had no other end, than to render his name for ever notorious, and he
succeeded, notwithstanding the Ephesians having decreed that his name
should never be mentioned.
In one of the temples where Diana was worshipped, the presiding priest was
always a slave who had slain his predecessor in office, and warned by the
fate he had inflicted on others, he never went without a dagger, to protect
himself from those who might be ambitious of his office, and reckless of
his crime. {54}
In another, she had an altar, whereon they immolated all those whom
shipwreck had thrown on their inhospitable shores.
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"Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led!
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow
Fabled of old?---- ---- ---- ----
* * * * * *
What art thou like? sometimes I see thee ride
A far bound galley on its perilous way,
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray--
Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep,
Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,
Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep
To catch the young Endymion asleep,
Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch!
"Oh! thou art beautiful, however it be,
Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named,
And he the veriest Pagan, that first framed
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee!
It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee;
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,
And not divine the crescent on thy brows:
Yet call thee nothing but the mere, mild moon,
Behind those chesnut boughs
Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;
I will be grateful for that simple boon
In many a thoughtful verse, and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.
"So let it be: before I lived to sigh,
Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills,
Beautiful Dian! and so whene'er I lie
Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills.
Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills,
And blessed thy fair face, O mother mild!
Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run,
Still lend thy lonely lamp, to lovers fond,
And blend their plighted shadows into one:
Still smile at even on the bedded child,
And close his eyelids with thy silver wand."