Moly

Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,

If thou touch at Circe's isle,—

Hermes' moly, growing solely

To undo enchanter's wile!

When she proffers thee her chalice,—

Wine and spices mixed with malice,—

When she smites thee with her staff

To transform thee, do thou laugh!

Safe thou art if thou but bear

The least leaf of moly rare.

Close it grows beside her portal,

Springing from a stock immortal,

Yes! and often has the Witch

Sought to tear it from its niche;

But to thwart her cruel will

The wise God renews it still.

Though it grows in soil perverse,

Heaven hath been its jealous nurse,

And a flower of snowy mark

Springs from root and sheathing dark;

Kingly safeguard, only herb

That can brutish passion curb!

Some do think its name should be

Shield-Heart, White Integrity.

Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,

If thou touch at Circe's isle,—

Hermes' moly, growing solely

To undo enchanter's wile!