Ev'n the gods for thee have places;

Thee too Cytherea's boy

Weaves about his locks for joy,

Dancing with the Graces.

Crown me then; I'll play the lyre, Bacchus, underneath thy shade: Heap me, heap me higher and higher, And I'll lead a dance of fire

With a dark deep-bosom'd maid.

THE BANQUET.

Στεφανους μεν κροταφοισι.

OFTEN fit we round our brows, One and all, the rosy boughs,

And with genial laughs carouse.

To the twinkling of the lute Trips a girl with delicate foot, Bearing a green ivy stick Rustling with it's tresses thick;

While a boy of earnest air,

With a gentle head of hair,

Plays the many-mouthed pipe,

Rich with voices breathing ripe.

Love himself the golden-tressed,

Bacchus blithe, and Venus blessed, Come from heaven to join our cheer,

So completely does appear

Comus, youth's restorer, here.

WHEN a set of youths I see,

Youth itself returns to me.

Then, ah then, my old age springs
To the dance on starting wings.
Stop, Cybeba;-roses there

To adorn a dancer's hair,-
Grey-beard age away be flung,
And I'll join ye, young for young.
Some one then go fetch me wine
Of a vintage rare and fine,

And I'll shew what age can do,

Able still to warble too,

Able still to drink down sadness,

And display a graceful madness.

THE SEAT UNDER THE TREE.

Παρα την σκιην Βαθυλλε.

HERE'S the place to seat us, love!
A perfect arbour! Look above,
How the delicate sprays, like hair,
Bend them to the breaths of air!
Listen, too! It is a rill,

Telling us it's gentle will.

Who that knows what luxury is,
Could go by a place like this?