As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness—Fancy’s rustling bed!
Tress-tossing girls, with smell of flowers and grapes,
Come dancing by, and piping cheeks intent,
And thrown up cymbals, and Silvanus old
Lumpishly borne, and many trampling shapes,
And lastly, with his bright eyes on her bent,
Bacchus—whose bride has of his hand fast hold.
II.
It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,