POSCIMUR

Hush, for they call! If in the shade, My lute, we twain have idly strayed, And song for many a season made, Once more reply; Once more we’ll play as we have played, My lute and I!

Roman the song: the strain you know, The Lesbian wrought it long ago. Now singing as he charged the foe, Now in the bay, Where safe in the shore-water’s flow His galleys lay.

So sang he Bacchus and the Nine, And Venus and her boy divine, And Lycus of the dusky eyne, The dusky hair; So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine, Of all things fair;

Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell, Thou lute, to Jove desirable, When soft thine accents sigh and swell At festival— Delight more dear than words can tell, Attend my call!