Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead;The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit,With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan, fiery red,Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna's pit.'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green,Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze;Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen,Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.Pale Death, impartial, walks his round: he knocks at cottage-gateAnd palace-portal. Sestius, child of bliss!How should a mortal's hopes be long, when short his being's date?Lo here! the fabulous ghosts, the dark abyss,