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solve and melt: – ’twas just as he foresaw.

      He met within the murmurous vestibule

      His young disciple. “’Tis no common rule,

      Lycius,” said he, “for uninvited guest

      To force himself upon you, and infest

      With an unbidden presence the bright throng

      Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong,

      And you forgive me.” Lycius blush’d, and led

      The old man through the inner doors broad-spread;

      With reconciling words and courteous mien

      Turning into sweet milk the sophist’s spleen.

      Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,

      Fill’d with pervading brilliance and perfume:

      Before each lucid pannel fuming stood

      A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood,

      Each by a sacred tripod held aloft,

      Whose slender feet wide-swerv’d upon the soft

      Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke

      From fifty censers their light voyage took

      To the high roof, still mimick’d as they rose

      Along the mirror’d walls by twin-clouds odorous.

      Twelve sphered tables, by silk seats insphered,

      High as the level of a man’s breast rear’d

      On libbard’s paws, upheld the heavy gold

      Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told

      Of Ceres’ horn, and, in huge vessels, wine

      Come from the gloomy tun with merry shine.

      Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood,

      Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.

      When in an antichamber every guest

      Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press’d,

      By minist’ring slaves, upon his hands and feet,

      And fragrant oils with ceremony meet

      Pour’d on his hair, they all mov’d to the feast

      In white robes, and themselves in order placed

      Around the silken couches, wondering

      Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of wealth could spring.

      Soft went the music the soft air along,

      While fluent Greek a vowel’d undersong

      Kept up among the guests, discoursing low

      At first, for scarcely was the wine at flow;

      But when the happy vintage touch’d their brains,

      Louder they talk, and louder come the strains

      Of powerful instruments: – the gorgeous dyes,

      The space, the splendour of the draperies,

      The roof of awful richness, nectarous cheer,

      Beautiful slaves, and Lamia’s self, appear,

      Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed,

      And every soul from human trammels freed,

      No more so strange; for merry wine, sweet wine,

      Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine.

      Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height;

      Flush’d were their cheeks, and bright eyes double bright:

      Garlands of every green, and every scent

      From vales deflower’d, or forest-trees branch-rent,

      In baskets of bright osier’d gold were brought

      High as the handles heap’d, to suit the thought

      Of every guest; that each, as he did please,

      Might fancy-fit his brows, silk-pillow’d at his ease.

      What wreath for Lamia? What for Lycius?

      What for the sage, old Apollonius?

      Upon her aching forehead be there hung

      The leaves of willow and of adder’s tongue;

      And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him

      The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim

      Into forgetfulness; and, for the sage,

      Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage

      War on his temples. Do not all charms fly

      At the mere touch of cold philosophy?

      There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:

      We know her woof, her texture; she is given

      In the dull catalogue of common things.

      Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,

      Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,

      Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine –

      Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made

      The tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade.

      By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place,

      Scarce saw in all the room another face,

      Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took

      Full brimm’d, and opposite sent forth a look

      ’Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance

      From his old teacher’s wrinkled countenance,

      And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher

      Had fix’d his eye, without a twinkle or stir

      Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride,

      Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.

      Lycius then press’d her hand, with devout touch,

      As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:

      ’Twas icy, and the cold ran through his veins;

      Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains

      Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart.

      “Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?

      Know’st thou that man?” Poor Lamia answer’d not.

      He gaz’d into her eyes, and not a jot

      Own’d they the lovelorn piteous appeal:

      More, more he gaz’d: his human senses reel:

      Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs;

      There was no recognition in those orbs.

      “Lamia!” he cried – and no soft-toned reply.

      The many heard, and the loud revelry

      Grew hush; the stately music no more breathes;

      The myrtle sicken’d in a thousand wreaths.

      By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased;

      A deadly silence step by step increased,

      Until it seem’d

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