THOMAS STURGE MOORE
Baffling their comrades' legs with mounting heaps. Treble their labour 1 still the happier they, Who, at this genial task, wear out long hours, Till vast night round them creeps, When soon the torch-light dance whirls them away; For gods, who love wine, double all their powers.
lacchus is the always grateful god'
His vineyards are more fair than gardens far;
Hanging, like those of Babylon, they nod
O'er each Ionian cliff and hill-side scar'
While Cypris lends him saltncss, depth, and peace;
The brown earth yields him sap for richest green,
And he has borrowed laughter from the sky,
Wildness fiom winds, and bees
Bring honey. Then choose casks which thou hast seen
Are leakless, very wholesome, and quite dry'
That Coan wine the very finest is,
I do assure thce, who have travelFd much
And learn'd to judge of diverse vintages.
Faint not before the toil' this wine is such
As tempteth princes launch long pirate barks,
From which may Zeus protect Sicilian bays,
And, ere long, me safe home from Egypt bring,
Letting no black-sail'd sharks
Scent this king's gifts, for whom I sweeten praise
I wrote them 'ncath the vine-cloak'd elm, for thee. Recall those nights' our couches were a load Of scented lentisk; upward, tiee by tree, Thy father's orchard sloped, and past us flow'd
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