And tears by long indulgence ceased.
Alcæus strung his sounding lyre,
And smote it with a hand of fire,
To Sappho, fondest of the fair,
Chanting the loud and lofty air.
Whilst old Anacreon, wet with wine,
And crown'd with wreaths of Lesbian vine,
* * * * * *
E'en Sophocles, whose honey'd lore
Rivals the bee's delicious store,