After a short space they came Where a grove was growing; At the entrance of the same Rills with murmur flowing; There the wind with myrrh and spice Redolent was blowing, Sounds of timbrel, harp, and lyre Through the branches going. All the music man could make There they heard in plenty; Timbrel, psaltery, lyre, and lute, Harp and viol dainty; Voices that in part-song meet Choiring forte, lente; Sounds the diatesseron, Sounds the diapente. All the tongues of all the birds With full cry were singing; There the blackbird's melody Sweet and true was ringing; Wood-dove, lark, and thrush on high Jocund anthems flinging, With the nightingale, who still To her grief was clinging. When the girls drew nigh the grove, Some fear came upon them; Further as they fared, the charm Of the pleasance won them; All the birds so sweetly sang That a spell was on them, And their bosoms warmed with love At the welcome shown them. Man would be immortal if He could there be dwelling: Every branch on every tree With ripe fruit is swelling; All the ways with nard and myrrh And with spice are smelling: How divine the Master is All the house is telling. Blithesome bands arrest their gaze, Youths and maidens dancing; Bodies beauteous as the stars, Eyes with heaven's light glancing And the bosoms of the girls, At the sight entrancing, Leap to view such marvels new, Joy with joy enhancing! They their horses check, and light, Moved with sudden pleasure; Half forget what brought them here, Thralled by love and leisure; Till once more the nightingale Tuned her thrilling measure; At that cry each girl again Hugs her hidden treasure. Round the middle of the grove Was a place enchanted, Which the god for his own rites Specially had planted; Fauns and nymphs and satyrs here Flowery alleys haunted, And before the face of Love Played and leaped and chaunted. In their hands they carry thyme, Crowns of fragrant roses; Bacchus leads the choir divine And the dance composes; Nymphs and fauns with feet in tune Interchange their posies; But Silenus trips and reels When the chorus closes. On an ass the elder borne All the mad crew guideth; Mirth and laughter at the view Through Love's glad heart glideth. "Io!" shouts the eld; that sound In his throat subsideth, For his voice in wine is drowned, And his old age chideth. 'Mid these pleasant sights appears Love, the young joy-giver; Bright as stars his eyes, and wings On his shoulders shiver; In his left hand is the bow, At his side the quiver; From his state the world may know He is lord for ever.