'Tis Circe singing near her golden loom;
No garish lamps afflicted his charmed brain—
Demeter's poppies brighten o'er her tomb.
But half-awake he looks on starlit trees—
Sees but the huntress in her eager chase;
Wake, wake him not upon the fragrant breeze,
Let horn and hound announce her rapid pace.
Blithe shepherds pipe within the Dorian vales,
Hellenic airs blow through their sun-bright hair,
To him alone the wooers whisper tales—