_Chorus:_ He fled away like the storm-blast wild, More swift than cloud-compelling winds; And swifter than the comet's torch, When, driven before the wind, it speeds With long-drawn, trailing fires. 740 Let fame, that boasts of her olden times, Compare with thine all ancient charms: Beyond compare does thy beauty shine, Clear and bright as the full-orbed moon, When, with waxing hours in splendor joined, 745 Night long she speeds her shining car, And her ruddy face so brightly gleams, That the fires of the lesser stars are dimmed. He is fair as the messenger of night, When he leads the evening shadows in, Himself new bathed in the ocean's foam; 750 Or when, the darkness put to flight, He heralds the dawn--bright Lucifer. And thou of the thyrsus, Indian Bacchus, With the flowing locks of endless youth, With thine ivy-clad spear the tigers driving, 755 And thy turban set on thy hornéd head: Not thus will thy glorious locks outshine The unadorned hair of Hippolytus. And admire not thy beauty over much, For fame has spread the story far, How Phaedra's sister preferred to thee, 760 O Bromius, a mortal man. Ah beauty, a doubtful boon art thou, The gift of a fleeting hour! How swift On flying feet thou glidest away! So flowery meadows of the spring The summer's burning heat devours, 765 When midday's raging sun rides high, And night's brief round is hurried through. As the lilies languish on their stems, So pleasing tresses fail the head; And swiftly is the radiance dimmed 770 Which gleams from the tender cheeks of youth! Each day hath its spoil from the lovely form; For beauty flees and soon is gone. Who then would trust a gift so frail? Nay, use its joys, while still thou mayst; For silent time will soon destroy thee, 775 And hours to baser hours steal on. Why seek the desert wilds? Thy form Is no more safe in pathless ways. If in the forest's depths thou hide, When Titan brings the noonday heat, The saucy Naïds will surround thee, 780 Who are wont in their clear springs to snare The lovely youth; and 'gainst thy sleep The wanton goddesses of groves, The Dryads, who the roving Pans Drive in pursuit, will mischief plot. Or else that glowing star, whose birth 785 The old Arcadians beheld, Will see thee from the spangled sky, And straight forget to drive her car. Of late she blushed a fiery red, And yet no staining cloud obscured Her shining disk. But we, in fear For her troubled face, clashed cymbals loud, 790