GANYMEDE.
57
| To wait, to wait, but not to wait too long, |
| Till heavy grows the burthen of a song; |
| O bird! too long hast thou been gone to-day, |
| My feet are weary of their frequent way, |
| The spell that opes the spring my tongue no more can say. |
| If soon thou com'st not, night will fall around, |
| My head with a sad slumber will be bound, |
| And the pure draught be spilt upon the ground. |
| Remember that I am not yet divine, |
| Long years of service to the fatal Nine |
| Are yet to make a Delphian vigor mine. |
| O, make them not too hard, thou bird of Jove, |
| Answer the stripling's hope, confirm his love, |
| Receive the service in which he delights, |
| And bear him often to the serene heights, |
| Where hands that were so prompt in serving thee, |
| Shall be allowed the highest minstry, |
| And Rapture live with bright Fidelity. |
The afternoon was spent in a very different
manner. The family, whose guests we were, possessed
a gay and graceful hospitality that gave zest to each
moment. They possessed that rare politeness which,
while fertile in pleasant expedients to vary the enjoyment
of a friend, leaves him perfectly free the
moment he wishes to be so. With such hosts, pleasure
may be combined with repose. They lived on
the bank opposite the town, and, as their house was
full, we slept in the town, and passed three days
with them, passing to and fro morning and evening
in their boats. (To one of these, called the Fairy,
in which a sweet little daughter of the house moved
