THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS. 39 



There in the bowl we find him. 

 The grape is the well of that summer sun, 

 Or rather the stream that he gazed upon, 

 Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth, 



His soul, as he gazed behind him. 



A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love, 

 And a cup to the son of Maia, 

 And honour with three, the band zone-free. 



The band of the bright Aglaia. 

 But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure 



Ye owe to the sister Hours, 

 No stinted cups, in a formal measure, 



The Bromian law makes ours. 

 He honours us most who gives us most. 

 And boasts with a BacchanaFs honest boast. 

 He never will count the treasure. 

 Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings. 

 And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs ; 

 And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume. 

 We ^11 scatter the spray round the garland's bloom. 



We glow — we glow. 

 Behold, as the girls of the Eastern wave 

 Bore once with a shout to their crystal cave 

 The prize of the Mysian Hylas, 

 Even so — even so, 

 We have caught the young god in our warm embrace, 

 We hurry him on in our laughing race ; 

 We hurry him on, with a whoop and song, 

 The cloudy rivers of Night along — 

 Ho, ho I we have caught thee, Psilas ! 



