Ere the dark Lethe's sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot.
——-
THESE few leaves, oh ye Graces, a bard presents, in your honour,
On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds as well,
And he does it with hope. The artist is glad in his workshop,
When a Pantheon it seems round him for ever to bring.
Jupiter knits his godlike brow,—her's, Juno up-lifteth;
Phoebus strides on before, shaking his curly-lock'd head
Calmly and drily Minerva looks down, and Hermes the light one,
Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender at once.
But tow'rds Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, raiseth Cythere
Looks both longing and sweet, e'en in the marble yet moist.
Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and seems to be asking
"Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?"
——-
AMOR is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated!
To me the hypocrite came: "Trust me, I pray thee, this once.
Honest is now my intent,—with grateful thanks I acknowledge
That thou thy life and thy works hast to my worship ordain'd.
See, I have follow'd thee thither, to Rome, with kindly intention,
Hoping to give thee mine aid, e'en in the foreigner's land.
Every trav'ller complains that the quarters he meets with are wretched