While Arcite lives in bliss, the story turns Where hopeless Palamon in prison mourns. For six long years immured, the captive knight Had dragged his chains, and scarcely seen the light: Lost liberty and love at once he bore; His prison pained him much, his passion more; Nor dares he hope his fetters to remove, Nor ever wishes to be free from love. But when the sixth revolving year was run, And May, within the Twins, received the sun, Were it by chance, or forceful destiny, Which forms in causes first whate'er shall be, Assisted by a friend, one moonless night, This Palamon from prison took his flight. A pleasant beverage he prepared before Of wine and honey, mixed with added store Of opium; to his keeper this he brought, Who swallowed, unaware, the sleepy draught, And snored secure till morn, his senses bound In slumber, and in long oblivion drowned. Short was the night, and careful Palamon Sought the next covert ere the rising sun. A thick-spread forest near the city lay, } To this, with lengthened strides, he took his way, } (For far he could not fly, and feared the day.) } Safe from pursuit, he meant to shun the light, } Till the brown shadows of the friendly night } To Thebes might favour his intended flight. } When to his country come, his next design Was all the Theban race in arms to join, And war on Theseus, till he lost his life, Or won the beauteous Emily to wife. Thus while his thoughts the lingering day beguile, To gentle Arcite let us turn our style; Who little dreamt how nigh he was to care, Till treacherous fortune caught him in the snare. The morning lark, the messenger of day, Saluted, in her song, the morning gray; And soon the sun arose with beams so bright, That all the horizon laughed to see the joyous sight. He, with his tepid rays, the rose renews, And licks the drooping leaves, and dries the dews; When Arcite left his bed, resolved to pay Observance to the month of merry May: Forth, on his fiery steed, betimes he rode, That scarcely prints the turf on which he trode: At ease he seemed, and, prancing o'er the plains, Turned only to the grove his horse's reins, (The grove I named before,) and lighting there, A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair; Then turned his face against the rising day, And raised his voice to welcome in the May:-- For thee, sweet month, the groves green liveries wear, If not the first, the fairest, of the year: For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers: When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight, Nor goats, with venomed teeth, thy tendrils bite, As thou shalt guide my wandering feet to find The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to bind.--