Iacchus' darling,
Or some youth beloved of Pan,
Of Pan and the nymphs;
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
That crown his hair,
Falling forward, mingling
With the dark ivy-plants;
His fawn-skin, half untied,
Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he,
That he sits, overweighed
By fumes of wine and sleep,
So late, in thy portico?
What youth, goddess,—what guest
Of gods or mortals?
CIRCE.
Hist! he wakes!
I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
Nay, ask him!
THE YOUTH.
Who speaks? Ah! who comes forth
To thy side, goddess, from within?
How shall I name him,—
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Ah! and I see too
His sailor's bonnet,
His short coat, travel-tarnished,
With one arm bare!—
