To the uncivilized Thracian the wine-cup
Seems to drop poison; he furiously seizes
The sabre, and wields it in passion,
And scatters around him the death-wounds.
Ye who were nursed at the breast of affection,
Nursed with the sweet milk of gentleness,―wherefore
This struggle—this raging of fury?
Be still—cease the storm of the battle!
Harper! awake thy soft music—the music
Which charms thine own maiden—sing joyous: the moonlight
That smiles on our cup so benignly,
Will soon be o'ershadowed in darkness.
High in the heaven doth the traveller linger,
Rolling her chariot in brightness and glory:
Doth she not feel that the mantle
Of twilight envelopes the morning?