Could I but grant unto each one night on the couch where I'm lying;
But they, by Orcus' night, sternly, alas! are held down.
Therefore rejoice, thou living one, blest in thy love-lighted homestead,
Ere the dark Lethe's sad wave wetteth thy fugitive foot.
These few leaves, ye Graces, a bard presents, in your honour,
On your altar so pure, adding sweet rosebuds as well,
And he does it with hope. The artist is glad in his workshop,
When a Pantheon it seems round him for ever to bring.
Jupiter knits his godlike brow,—hers, Juno uplifteth;
Phœbus strides on before, shaking his curly-locked head;
Calmly and dryly Minerva looks down, and Hermes, the light one,
Turneth his glances aside, roguish and tender at once.
But toward Bacchus, the yielding, the dreaming, raiseth Cythere
Looks both longing and sweet, e'en in the marble yet moist.
Of his embraces she thinks with delight, and seems to be asking:—
"Should not our glorious son take up his place by our side?"
Amor is ever a rogue, and all who believe him are cheated!
