|For your Catullus' purse just now|
With spiders' webs is running over.
|But anyhow, a welcome warm And loving shall be yours, I ween; And, for a rarer, daintier charm,||15|
|A perfume which the Paphian queen1|
|Gave to my girl, --so rare, so sweet,|
That, when you smell it, in the throes
Of ecstasy you'll straight entreat
The gods to make you wholly nose.
|SIR THEODORE MARTIN|
|O BEST of all the scattered spots that lie In sea or lake--apple of landscape's eye-- How gladly do I drop within thy nest, With what a sigh of full contented rest, Scarce able to believe my journey o'er,||5|
|And that these eyes behold thee safe once more.|
Oh, where's the luxury like the smile at heart,
When the mind, breathing, lays its load apart--
When we come home again, tired out, and spread
The loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed;
|This, this alone is worth an age of toil!|
Hail lovely Sirmio! Hail paternal soil!
Joy, my bright waters, joy, your master's come !
Laugh, every dimple on the cheek of home!