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.
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