 | Poems by a Painter |  |
IV.
Who in his purple chariot, panther-drawn,
Bursts through the revel, glorious as the dawn—
His dancing hair with tender vine-leaves crowned,
His rosy feet with golden sandals bound?
Athwart his ivory shoulders, backwards blown
By his own speed, a pard's light spoils are thrown;
In his soft hand the wreathèd thyrsus gleams,
And from his dark, bold eye the godhood beams!
Io! evoè! ho!—'Tis he! 'tis he!
Bacchus, the white-armed son of Semele!
Bursts through the revel, glorious as the dawn—
His dancing hair with tender vine-leaves crowned,
His rosy feet with golden sandals bound?
Athwart his ivory shoulders, backwards blown
By his own speed, a pard's light spoils are thrown;
In his soft hand the wreathèd thyrsus gleams,
And from his dark, bold eye the godhood beams!
Io! evoè! ho!—'Tis he! 'tis he!
Bacchus, the white-armed son of Semele!
Wake, Ariadne! On the billowy strand
He bends above thee, and with gentlest hand
Smooths thy dank hair and breathes o'er cheek and brow,
As breathes the spring o'er winter's waste of snow;
Breathes until once again the roses bud and blow!
He bends above thee, and with gentlest hand
Smooths thy dank hair and breathes o'er cheek and brow,
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Breathes until once again the roses bud and blow!
Wake, Ariadne! Night hath past away
With all thy sorrow. See! the joyous Day
Comes dancing o'er the eastern foam. Arise,
And shame him with the glory of thine eyes;
They were not made for tears, nor this white breast for sighs!
With all thy sorrow. See! the joyous Day
Comes dancing o'er the eastern foam. Arise,
And shame him with the glory of thine eyes;
They were not made for tears, nor this white breast for sighs!
Wake, Ariadne! by thy slumbering side
Lyæus kneels, and woos thee for his bride;
With him to roam from sunny shore to shore,
A proud and peerless queen the wide world o'er;
Wake, Ariadne, wake!—be loved! and weep no more!
Lyæus kneels, and woos thee for his bride;
With him to roam from sunny shore to shore,
A proud and peerless queen the wide world o'er;
Wake, Ariadne, wake!—be loved! and weep no more!
| Poems by a Painter | |