Strona 748 z 1116

By th' Abyssinian Pond, O day divine!* In morning twilight and in

sunny shine: The water prisoned in its verdurous walls, * Like

sabre flashes before shrinking eyne: And in The Garden sat we

while it drains * Slow draught, with purfled sides dyed finest

fine: The stream is rippled by the hands of clouds; * We too,

a-rippling, on our rugs recline, Passing pure wine, and whoso

leaves us there * Shall ne'er arise from fall his woes design:

Draining long draughts from large and brimming bowls, *

Administ'ring thirst's only medicine-wine.