To which the sun a cheering beam denies,
Old Charon’s boat, slow-wandering to and fro,
Promiscuous passed before my swimming eyes,—
When you, Neæra! with your humid breath
O’er my parched lips the deep-fetched kiss bestowed
Sudden my fleeting soul returned from death,
And freightless hence the infernal pilot rowed.
Yet soft,—for, oh, my erring senses stray;—
Not quite unfreighted to the Stygian shore
Old Charon steered his lurid bark away: