Dear prince, a special favourite of the skies, Pray let my incense from your altars rise. With these her gifts, if rather late my muse, My age and labours must her fault excuse. My spirit wanes, while yours beams on the sight At every moment with augmented light: It does not go--it runs,--it seems to fly; And he from whom it draws its traits so high, In war a hero,[2] burns to do the same. No lack of his that, with victorious force, His giant strides mark not his glory's course: Some god retains: our sovereign I might name; Himself no less than conqueror divine, Whom one short month made master of the Rhine. It needed then upon the foe to dash; Perhaps, to-day, such generalship were rash. But hush,--they say the Loves and Smiles Abhor a speech spun out in miles; And of such deities your court Is constantly composed, in short. Not but that other gods, as meet, There hold the highest seat: For, free and lawless as the rest may seem, Good Sense and Reason bear a sway supreme. Consult these last about the case Of certain men of Grecian race, Who, most unwise and indiscreet, Imbibed such draughts of poison sweet, As changed their form, and brutified. Ten years the heroes at Ulysses' side Had been the sport of wind and tide. At last those powers of water The sea-worn wanderers bore To that enchanted shore Where Circe reign'd, Apollo's daughter. She press'd upon their thirsty lips Delicious drink, but full of bane: Their reason, at the first light sips, Laid down the sceptre of its reign. Then took their forms and features The lineaments of various creatures. To bears and lions some did pass, Or elephants of ponderous mass; While not a few, I ween, In smaller forms were seen,-- In such, for instance, as the mole. Of all, the sage Ulysses sole Had wit to shun that treacherous bowl. With wisdom and heroic mien, And fine address, he caused the queen To swallow, on her wizard throne, A poison somewhat like her own. A goddess, she to speak her wishes dared, And hence, at once, her love declared. Ulysses, truly too judicious To lose a moment so propitious, Besought that Circe would restore His Greeks the shapes that first they wore. Replied the nymph, 'But will they take them back? Go make the proffer to the motley pack.' Ulysses ran, both glad and sure: 'That poisonous cup,' cried he 'hath yet its cure; And here I bring what ends your shame and pain. Will you, dear friends, be men again? Pray speak, for speech is now restored.' 'No,' said the lion,--and he roar'd,-- 'My head is not so void of brains! Renounce shall I my royal gains? I've claws and teeth to tear my foes to bits,