Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/85

Rh

Within my chalice turns to purple gore— 'Tis on my soul! it stains my garments! Earth Refuses to absorb the guilty stream; And the just gods with loathing turn away From the unhallowed offering! Oh say How may I expiate the crime? What prayer, What costly gift, what pompous sacrifice, May make atonement to offended Jove? The milk-white bull that roams in freedom round The base of lofty Athos, crowned with flowers, Blooming as those which fond Europa twined Around the monarch of the plain, and led By troops of noble virgins, raising high The choral strain, shall bleed before the shrine. And the swart Indian, from his richest mine Shall dig the ruby, pluck the orient pearl From ocean's depths, and mould the golden ore In votive offerings, such as gods may deem Meet to adorn their temples.