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, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus’ darling, Or some youth beloved of Pan, Of Pan and the nymphs; That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants; His fawn-skin, half untied, Smeared with red wine-stains? Who is he, That he sits, overweighed By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, goddess,--what guest Of gods or mortals? CIRCE. Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him! THE YOUTH. Who speaks? Ah! who comes forth To thy side, goddess, from within? How shall I name him,-- This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah! and I see too His sailor’s bonnet, His short coat, travel-tarnished, With one arm bare!-- Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumors The favored guest of Circe, brought by the waves? Art thou he, stranger,-- The wise Ulysses, Laertes’ son? ULYSSES. I am Ulysses. And thou too, sleeper? Thy voice is sweet. It may be thou hast followed Through the islands some divine bard, By age taught many things,-- Age, and the Muses; And heard him delighting The chiefs and people In the banquet, and learned his songs, Of gods and heroes, Of war and arts, And peopled cities, Inland, or built By the gray sea. If so, then hail! I honor and welcome thee. THE YOUTH. The gods are happy. They turn on all sides Their shining eyes, And see below them The earth and men. They see Tiresias Sitting, staff in hand, On the warm, grassy Asopus bank, His robe drawn over His old sightless head, Revolving inly The doom of Thebes. They see the centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pools, With streaming flanks, and heads Reared proudly, snuffing The mountain wind.