Adown his neck, with myrtle-buds inwove
And Syrian dews, his unshorn tresses flow:
White is he as the moon in heaven above,
But rose is blent with snow.

Like that soft blush on face of virgin fair
Led to her husband; or as maidens twine
Lilies in amaranth; or Autumn's air
Tinges the apples fine.

A long, loose mantle to his ankles played,--
Such vesture did his lucent shape enfold:
His left hand bore the vocal lyre, all made
Of gleaming shell and gold.

He smote its strings with ivory instrument,
And words auspicious tuned his heavenly tongue;
Then, while his hands and voice concording blent,
These sad, sweet words he sung:

"Hail, blest of Heaven! For a poet divine
Phoebus and Bacchus and the Muses bless.
But Bacchus and the skilful Sisters nine
No prophecies possess.

"But of what Fate ordains for times to be
Jove gave me vision. Therefore, minstrel dear!
Receive what my unerring lips decree!
The Cynthian wisdom hear!