Oh, how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate!
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood-the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass!

IF old Bacchus were the speaker,
He would tell you, with a sigh,
Of the Cyprus in this beaker
I am sipping like a fly,-

Like a fly or gnat on Ida

At the hour of goblet-pledge,

By Queen Juno brushed aside, a

Full white arm-sweep, from the edge.

Sooth, the drinking should be ampler,
When the drink is so divine ;

And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler
Would become your Cyprus wine!

Pan might dip his head so deep in,
That his ears alone pricked out,
Fauns around him, pressing, leaping,
Each one pointing to his throat:

While the Naiads, like Bacchantes
Wild, with urns thrown out to waste,
Cry,-"O earth, that thou wouldst grant us
Springs to keep, of such a taste!"

But, for me, I am not worthy

After gods and Greeks to drink ; And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink.

Since you heard them speak the last time, They have faded from their blooms, And the laughter of my pastime

Has learnt silence at the tombs.

Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers Crowned the cup, and crowned the brow.

Can I answer the old thinkers

In the forms they thought of, now?
Who will fetch from garden-closes
Some new garlands while I speak,
That the forehead, crowned with roses,
May strike scarlet down the cheek?

Do not mock me! with my mortal,
Suits no wreath again, indeed!
I am sad-voiced as the turtle

Which Anacreon used to feed;
Yet as that same bird demurely
Wet her beak in cup of his,-
So, without a garland, surely
I may touch the brim of this.

Go! let others praise the Chian!
This is soft as Muses' string-

This is tawny as Rhea's lion,
This is rapid as its spring,-
Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us,
Light as ever trod her feet!
And the brown bees of Hymettus
Make their honey not so sweet.

Very copious are my praises,

Though I sip it like a fly!-
Ah-but, sipping,-times and places.
Change before me suddenly-
As Ulysses' old libation

Drew the ghosts from every part,
So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian,
Stirs the Hades of my heart.

And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seek, When, betwixt the folio's turnings,

Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. Past the pane, the mountain spreading, Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, While a girlish voice was reading

Somewhat low for au's and oi's.

Then what golden hours were for us!— While we sat together there,

How the white vests of the chorus

Seemed to wave up a live air!

How the cothurns trod majestic
Down the deep iambic lines;
And the rolling anapastic

Curled like vapour over shrines !

Oh, our Eschylus, the thunderous !
How he drove the bolted breath
Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous
In the gnarled oak beneath.

Oh, our Sophocles, the royal,

Who was born to monarch's place-And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace.

Our Euripides, the human

With his droppings of warm tears; And his touches of things common, Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion,

And our Pindar's shining goals!— These were cup-bearers undying

Of the wine that's meant for souls.

And my Plato, the divine one,—
If men know the gods aright
By their motions, as they shine on
With a glorious trail of light!-
And your noble Christian bishops,
Who mouthed grandly the last Greek:
Though the sponges on their hyssops

Were distent with wine-too weak.