Where thy fane, time-riven,
Crowns the marble hill,
And sailing up the heaven,
Thy crescent decks it still;
Though the Asian timbrel,
And the bounding foot,
And song, and Lesbian cymbal,
That hailed thee once, be mute;
A stranger of old days dreaming,
Alone at midnight hour,
When mystic stars are gleaming,
Diana, hails thy power.
What though the mighty mother
Of all the gods denied
To thee the gift another
Had, and in virgin pride
Bade thee spurn the myrtle,
Chaste, and cold, and true,
(Oh, in his nest the turtle
Wreaths cypress branches too).
Yet the shining river,
And the waving tree,
Fresh and fair for ever,
Oh, gave she not to thee?
Still amid the wild wood
Let thy horn rebound,
As in dreaming childhood
I've heard its silver sound,
Stealing far and faintly,
O'er wakened wold and wave,
While echo answered quaintly,
From out her star-lit cave.