Never a pruner's hook thins out the shade of the tree-tufts,Never a bull up-plows broad glebe with bend of the coulter,Over whose point unuse displays the squalor of rust-stain.But in the homestead's heart, where'er that opulent palaceHides a retreat, all shines with splendour of gold and of silver.Ivory blanches the seats, bright gleam the flagons a-table,All of the mansion joys in royal riches and grandeur.But for the Diva's use bestrewn is the genial bedstead,Hidden in midmost stead, and its polisht framework of IndianTusk underlies its cloth empurpled by juice of the dye-shell.This be a figured cloth with forms of manhood primevalShowing by marvel-art the gifts and graces of heroes.Here upon Dia's strand wave-resonant, ever-regardingTheseus borne from sight outside by fleet of the fleetest,Stands Ariadne with heart full-filled with furies unbated,Nor can her sense as yet believe she 'spies the espied,When like one that awakes new roused from slumber deceptive,Sees she her hapless self lone left on loneliest sandbank:While as the mindless youth with oars disturbeth the shallows,Casts to the windy storms what vows he vainly had vowed.