With dripping steeds did Galatea follow, 'Neath Etna's crags, lone Polyphemus's song: Is 't strange the loved of Bacchus and Apollo Leads captive with his lay the maiden throng? Though no Tænarian blocks uphold my dwelling, Nor ivory panels shine 'tween gilded beams; No orchards mine Phæacia's woods excelling, No chiselled grots where Marcian water streams,Yet Song is mine; my strain the heart engages; Faint from the dance sinks the lithe Muse with me: O happy maid whose name adorns my pages! Each lay a lasting monument to thee! The pyramids that cleave heaven's jewelled portal; Devouring fire and rains will mar their splendor; crown. From the Latin of SEXTUS PROPERTIUS. WRITTEN ON A FLY-LEAF OF THOSE were good times, in olden days, |