Strona 750 z 788

"Seat thyself underneath my leaves, O guest, And rest. I promise

thee that the sharp-beaming sun Here shall not run, But 'neath

the trees spread out a heavy shade: Here always from the fields

cool winds have played; Here sparrows and the nightingales have

made Charming lament. And all my fragrant flowers their sweets

have spent Upon the bees; my master's board is lent That honey's

gold. And I with gentle whisperings can fold Sweet sleep upon

thee. Yea, 'tis true I bear No apples; yet my Lord speaks me as

fair As the most fruitful trees That graced the Gardens of

Hesperides."

Translated by Miss H. H. Havermate and G. R. Noyes.]