Diana, the moon-goddess, was also the patroness of hunting. She is the feminine counterpart of her twin brother Apollo, and, like him, though she deals out destruction and sudden death to men and animals, she is also able to alleviate suffering and cure diseases. When the chase was ended, she and her maidens loved to assemble in a shady grove, or on the banks of a favorite stream, where they joined in song or the dance.

This is the same goddess to whom Agamemnon was about to offer his daughter Iphigeni'a, previous to the departure of the Greeks for Troy. The story arose that Diana rescued the maiden at the moment of sacrifice and substituted a hind in her place. She conveyed Iphigenia to Tauris, where she became a priestess in the temple of the goddess.

The most celebrated statue of this divinity is that known as Diana of Versailles, now in the Louvre.

In this statue she appears in the act of rescuing a hunted deer from its pursuers, on whom she is turning with an angry look. One hand is laid protectingly on the head of the stag, while with the other she draws an arrow from the quiver which hangs over her shoulder.

The following song is from a play by Ben Jonson, called "Cynthia's Revels," the name Cynthia also being given to Diana. (Hesperus sings to the accompaniment of music):

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair

State in wonted manner keep

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose.

Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close.
Bless us then with wishéd sight,
Goddess, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal gleaming quiver:

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever,

Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Goddess, excellently bright.

Then follows a conversation between Cynthia and

Arete :

Cynthia. When hath Diana like an envious wretch That glitters only to her soothéd self,

Denying to the world the precious ore

Of hoarded wealth, withheld her friendly aid?

Yet, do expect the whole of Cynthia's light.

Arete. Most true, most sacred goddess; for the heavens Receive no good, of all the good they do:

Nor Jove, nor you, nor other heavenly powers,
Are fed with fumes which do from incense rise,
Or sacrifices, reeking in their gore;

Yet, for the care which you of mortals have,
(Whose proper good it is that they be so)
You well are pleased with odours redolent;
But ignorant is all the race of men,

Which still complains, not knowing why or when.

Cynthia. Else, noble Arete, they would not blame,
And tax, or for unjust, or for as proud

Thy Cynthia in the things which are indeed.
The greater glories in our starry crown.

Arete. How Cynthianly that is; how worthily
And like herself the matchless Cynthia 'speaks!
Thy presence broad, seals our delights for pure ;
What's done in Cynthia's sight is done secure.

Cynthia. That, then, so answered, dearest Arete,
What th' argument, or what sort our sports
Are like to be this night, I do not demand.
Nothing, which duty and desire to please
Bears written in the forehead, comes amiss.

Arete. Excellent goddess, to a man whose worth,
Without hyperbole, I this may praise

One at least studious of deserving well,
And, to speak truth, indeed deserving well.
Cynthia. We have already judged.

Arete. Nor are we ignorant how noble minds
Suffer too much, through those indignities
Which cruel, vicious persons cast on them.

Cynthia. Ourselves have ever vowed to esteem,

As virtue for itself, so fortune base ;

Who's first in worth, the same be first in place,
Nor farther notice, Arete, we crave

Than their approval's sovereign warranty;
Let be thy care to make us known to him.
Cynthia shall brighten what the world made dim.

This play was first presented in 1600. It appears to have been very favorably received, since we are told that it was frequently acted at Black Friars by the children of Queen Elizabeth's chapel.

It was also among the earliest plays revived after the Restoration, and was often performed at the New Theatre, Drury Lane.

The foregoing extract is taken from Scene III.

In the following poem Diana tells her own story:-

ON LATMOS: A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.

MISS L. W. BACKUS.

(Atlantic Monthly, September, 1879.)

With hunting nymphs, a starry train,
I lead the chase o'er heaven's plain ;
Through many a lair of fog and rain,
Through clear-washed azure space again,
With beamy darts, each night's surprise,
Flung down in lakelets' fringèd eyes, -
Earth's Argus watch, that see the hours
Whose dark we streak with silver showers.

Now on we chase through clear, cold heights,
Far, far above earth's twinkling lights,
Dissolving fast in midnight darks.

Out, out! ye puny, smoke-hued sparks!

Our laughter of immortal glee

Rewards your pigmy mockery.

Through cloud, through snow-drift, and white fire,
We hunt through heaven, nor pause, nor tire.

Hark! from below a flute's sweet strain

Sets tiptoe all my huntress train;
My silver-sandalled feet move slow.
A magic flute! now loud, now low,
Now piercing sweet, now cadenced clear,
Now fine as fay-voice to the ear,

Till my divining goddess-eyes

The stirred air's wake trace down the skies,

To see on Latmos' barren peak

The music's soul! What, shepherd, speak! For thy flute's sake, and for a face

Lit pale with strange appealing grace,

I'll hear, though scarce such open look
This haughty virgin heart can brook.
Thy name seems known to me; 'tis one
A flute might breathe, - Endymion.

The music mute? Nay, forward, chase! This mood's not mine! A shepherd's face With mortal sorrow written there,

In mortal guise however fair,

Can ne'er have held me. 'Twas the tune
Drew back my silver-tripping shoon,
Accordant, spell-bound! In this hush
Is space for breath, then on we rush.

What binds my feet and chains my eyes,
Unwilling thus? Whose daring tries
A strength immortal born above?
Shall Dian stoop to human love?
Can this cold breast, Caucasus snow,
With aught of mortal melting glow?

On, on! What holds me? Like a wind

Sweep, sweep me hence, my virgins kind!

'Tis vain! Those eyes so pleading bright
Compel my own, as light the light;
One name storms fast my soul upon,
Endymion, Endymion !