Now singing as he charged the foe,
Now in the bay,
Where safe in the shore-water's flow
His galleys lay.
So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,
And Venus and her boy divine,
And Lycus of the dusky eyne,
The dusky hair;
So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine,
Of all things fair;
Apollo's glory! Sounding shell,
Thou lute, to Jove desirable,
When soft thine accents sigh and swell
At festival -
Delight more dear than words can tell,
Attend my call!
ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW
FROM THE GREEK
I
Bird of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note
Was like the halcyon's song,
In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float
Still paths of the night along!
II
THE SAILOR'S GRAVE
Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I,
But thou, sail on!
For homeward safe did other vessels fly,
Though we were gone.
FROM MELEAGER
I love not the wine-cup, but if thou art fain
I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to me;
If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain,
It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to flee;
For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain
Does it speak of the grace that was given it by thee.
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