Hymns To The Gods - No. 11 Poem by Albert Pike

TO FLORA.

I.
Hear, lovely Chloris, while we sing to thee!
Thou restest now beneath some shady tree,
Near a swift brook, upon a mossy root;
All other winds with deep delight are mute,
While Euros frolics with thy flowing hair,
A thousand odors floating on the air,
And rippling softly through the dewy green
Of the thick leaves, that murmuringly screen
Thy snowy forehead. Struggling through their mass,
The quivering sunlight snows upon the grass
In golden flakes. Round thee a thousand flowers,
Still glittering with the tears of Spring's light showers,
Offer the incense of their glad perfume
To thee, who makest them to bud and bloom,
With thy kind smile and influence divine.
Thine arms around young Zephuros entwine,
And his round thee. With roses garlanded,
On his white shoulder rests thy lovely head;
Thy deep eyes gaze in his,
Radiant with mute, unutterable bliss,
And, happy there,
Oh, lovely, young, enamored pair,
Your rosy lips oft meet in many a long, warm kiss!

II.
Now the young Spring rejoices, and is glad,
In her new robes of starry blossoms clad;
The happy earth smiles like an innocent bride,
That sitteth, blushing, by her husband's side;
The bird her nest with earnest patience weaves,
And sings, delighted, hidden in the leaves;
From their high homes in cavernous old trees,
The busy legions of industrious bees
Drink nectar at each flower's enamelled brim,
Breathing in murmured music their glad hymn;
The Nereids come from their deep ocean-caves,
Deserting for a time the saddened waves;
The Druads from the dusky solitudes,
Of venerable and majestic woods;
The Naiads from deep beech-embowered lakes;
The Oreads from where hoarse Thunder shakes
The iron mountains;—wandering through cool glades,
And blushing lawns, when first the darkness fades,
Before the crimsoning morn,
And ere the young Day's sapphire tints are gone,
In glad haste all,
Their lovers to en wreathe withal,
Gather the fresh-blown flowers, gemmed with the tears of Dawn.

III.
Come, gentle Queen! we spill to thee no blood;
Thine altar stands where the gray, ancient wood,
Now green with leaves, and fresh with April rains,
In stately circle sweeping round, contains,
Embowered like a hill-environed dell,
A quiet lawn, whose undulations swell
Green as the sea-waves. Near a bubbling spring,
Whose waters, sparkling downward, lightly wring
On the small pebbles—round whose grassy lip
The birds and bees its crystal waters sip—
Thine altar stands, of shrubs and flowering vines,
Where rose with lilly and carnation twines.
We burn to thee no incense. These fresh blooms,
Breathe on the air more exquisite perfumes,
Than all that press the overladen wind
That seaward floats from Araby to Ind.
No priests are here prepared for sacrifice,
But fair young girls, with mischievous, bright eyes,
With white flowers garlanded,
And by their young, delighted lovers led,
With frequent kisses,
And fond and innocent caresses,
To honor thee, the victim and the priest instead.