_The Youth_. When the white dawn first Through the rough fir-planks 25 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, Up at the valley-head, Came breaking, Goddess! I sprang up, I threw round me My dappled fawn-skin; 30 Passing out, from the wet turf, Where they lay, by the hut door, I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, All drench'd in dew-- Came swift down to join 35 The rout° early gather'd °36 In the town, round the temple, Iacchus'° white fane° °38 On yonder hill.
Quick I pass'd, following 40 The wood-cutters' cart-track Down the dark valley;--I saw On my left, through, the beeches, Thy palace, Goddess, Smokeless, empty! 45 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld The court all silent, The lions sleeping,° °47 On the altar this bowl. I drank, Goddess! 50 And sank down here, sleeping, On the steps of thy portico.
_Circe_. Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? Thou lovest it, then, my wine? Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 55 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, The red, creaming liquor, Strown with dark seeds! Drink, then! I chide thee not, Deny thee not my bowl. 60 Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so! Drink--drink again!
_The Youth_. Thanks, gracious one! Ah, the sweet fumes again! More soft, ah me, 65 More subtle-winding Than Pan's flute-music!° °67 Faint--faint! Ah me, Again the sweet sleep!
_Circe_. Hist! Thou--within there! 70 Come forth, Ulysses°! °71 Art° tired with hunting? °72 While we range° the woodland, °73 See what the day brings.° °74
_Ulysses_. Ever new magic! 75 Hast thou then lured hither, Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, Iacchus' darling-- Or some youth beloved of Pan, 80 Of Pan and the Nymphs°? °81 That he sits, bending downward His white, delicate neck To the ivy-wreathed marge Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 85 That crown his hair, Falling forward, mingling With the dark ivy-plants-- His fawn-skin, half untied, Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 90 That he sits, overweigh'd By fumes of wine and sleep, So late, in thy portico? What youth, Goddess,--what guest Of Gods or mortals? 95
_Circe_. Hist! he wakes! I lured him not hither, Ulysses. Nay, ask him!
_The Youth_. Who speaks? Ah, who comes forth To thy side, Goddess, from within? 100 How shall I name him? This spare, dark-featured, Quick-eyed stranger? Ah, and I see too His sailor's bonnet, 105 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, With one arm bare°!-- °107 Art thou not he, whom fame This long time rumours The favour'd guest of Circe,° brought by the waves? °110 Art thou he, stranger? The wise Ulysses, Laertes' son?