Incense there and fragrant spiceWith odorous fumes thy nostrils shall salute;Blended notes thine ear entice,The lyre, the pipe, the Berecyntine flute:Graceful youths and maidens brightShall twice a day thy tuneful praise resound,While their feet, so fair and white,In Salian measure three times beat the ground.I can relish love no more,Nor flattering hopes that tell me hearts are true,Nor the revel's loud uproar,Nor fresh-wreathed flowerets, bathed in vernal dew.Ah! but why, my Ligurine,Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek?Wherefore halts this tongue of mine,So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak?Now I hold you in my chain,And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream;Now, still dreaming, o'er the plainI chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.