On the altar this bowl.
I drank, Goddess!
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,
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.
Come, stretch forth thy hand, then--so!
Drink--drink again!

_The Youth_

Thanks, gracious one!
Ah, the sweet fumes again!
More soft, ah me,
More subtle-winding
That Pan's flute-music!
Faint--faint! Ah me,
Again the sweet sleep!

_Circe_

Hist! Thou--within there!
Come forth, Ulysses!
Art tired with hunting?
While we range the woodland,
See what the day brings.

_Ulysses_

Ever new magic!
Hast thou then lured hither,
Wonderful Goddess, by thy art,
The young, languid-eyed Ampelus,
Iacchus' darling--
Or some youth beloved of Pan,
Of Pan and the Nymphs?
That he sits, bending downward
His white, delicate neck
To the ivy-wreathed marge
Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
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,
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?

_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?
How shall I name him?
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Ah, and I see too
His sailor's bonnet,
His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,
With one arm bare!--
Art thou not he, whom fame
This long time rumours
The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves?
Art thou he, stranger?
The wise Ulysses,
Laertes' son?

_Ulysses_

I am Ulysses.
And thou, too, sleeper?
Thy voice is sweet.
It may be thou hast follow'd
Through the island