'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off --and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, TO MARGUERITE. Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, We mortal millions live alone. But when the moon their hollows lights, And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Oh! then a longing like despair For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent! Now round us spreads the watery plain- Who order'd, that their longing's fire THE STRAYED REVELLER. THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE, EVENING. A Youth. Circe. The Youth. Faster, faster, O Circe, Goddess, Let the wild, thronging train, The bright procession Of eddying forms, Sweep through my soul! Thou standest, smiling Down on me! thy right arm, Lean'd up against the column there, Props thy soft cheek; Thy left holds, hanging loosely, The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, I held but now. Is it, then, evening So soon? I see the night-dews, On thy white shoulder; Circe. Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. When the white dawn first Up at the valley-head, I sprang up, I threw round me Passing out, from the wet turf, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, Came swift down to join The rout early gather'd In the town, round the temple, Iacchus' white fane On yonder hill. Quick I pass'd, following The wood-cutters' cart-track Smokeless, empty! Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping, On the altar this bowl. I drank, Goddess! And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico. Circe. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, then! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. Come, stretch forth thy hand, then-so! Drink-drink again! Hast thou then lured hither, Or some youth beloved of Pan, That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leavcs That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,-what guest Of Gods or mortals? Circe. Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. The Youth. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth This spare, dark-featured, Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare! Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? Art thou he, stranger? And thou, too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast follow'd Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things, Age and the Muses; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, Of Gods and Heroes, Of war and arts, And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the grey sea. If so, then hail! I honour and welcome thee. |