THE STRAYED REVELLER.
191
CIRCE.
Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
Wouldst more of it? See how glows,
Through the delicate, flushed marble,
The red creaming liquor,
Strewn with dark seeds!
Drink, then! I chide thee not,
Deny thee not my bowl.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then—so!
Drink—drink again!
THE YOUTH.
Thanks, gracious one!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me!
More subtle-winding,
Than Pan's flute-music!
Faint—faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!
CIRCE.
Hist! Thou—within there!
Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.
ULYSSES.
Ever new magic!
Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful goddess, by thy art,
