And in her grave was laid in prime of age. He, full of lamentation, journey'd on To Colophon,—and on the sacred page Enter'd his tale, and ceased, his mission done. VII. And well thou know'st, how famed Alcæus smote Of his high harp the love-enliven'd strings, And raised to Sappho's praise th' enamour'd note, Midst noise of mirth and jocund revellings: Ay, he did love that nightingale of song With all a lover's fervour,—and, as he Deftly attuned the lyre, to madness stung The Teian bard with envious jealousy. For her Anacreon, charming lyrist, woo'd, And fain would win, with sweet mellifluous chime, Encircled by her Lesbian sisterhood;— Would often Samos leave, and many a time, From vanquish'd Teos' viny orchards, hie To viny Lesbos' isle,—and from the shore, O'er the blue wave, on Lectum cast his eye, And think on by-gone days, and times no more. VIII. And how, from, steep Colonus' rocky height, On lightsome pinions borne, the Attic bee Sail'd through the air, and wing'd her honied flight, And sang of love and wine melodiously In choric numbers: for ethereal Jove Bestow'd on Sophocles Archippe's charms, Albeit in eve of life,—and gave to love And fold the yielding fair one in his arms. IX. Nay, I aver, in very sooth, that he, Dead from his birth to love, to beauty blind, Who, by quaint rules of cold philosophy, Contemn'd the sex, and hated womankind,— That he,—e'en he,—with all his stoic craft, Cave to imperial Love unwilling way, And, sore empierced with Cupid's tyrant shaft, Could neither sleep by night, nor rest by day; What time, in Archelaus' regal hall, Ægino, graceful handmaid, viands brought Of choicest savour, to her master's call Obsequious, or wine's impurpled draught: Nor didst thou cease, through streets and highways broad, Euripides! to chase the royal slave, Till vengeance met thee, in his angry mood, And deep-mouth'd bloodhounds tore thee to the grave. X. And him too of Cythera,—foster child Of all the Muses, train'd to love and song,— Philoxenus,—thou knowest,—how with wild And loud acclaim, (as late he pass'd along Through Colophon,) and shouts of joyfulness, The air was riv'n: for thou didst hear the tale Of Galatea lost, fair shepherdess, Whom e'en the firstlings of her flock bewail. XI. Nor is Philetas' name to thee unknown, Than whom a sweeter minstrel never was; Whose statue lives in his own native town, Hallow'd to fame, and breathes in deathless brass,