‘Drink, feast, love, my pupil!’ said he, ’blush not that thou art passionate and young.  That which thou art, thou feelest in thy veins:  that which thou shalt be, survey!’

With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apaecides, following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed between the statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a skeleton.

‘Start not,’ resumed the Egyptian; ’that friendly guest admonishes us but of the shortness of life.  From its jaws I hear a voice that summons us to enjoy.’

As he spoke, a group of nymphs surrounded the statue; they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were emptied and refilled at that glowing board, they sang the following strain: 

Bacchic hymns to the image of death

I

Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host,
Thou that didst drink and love: 
By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost,
But thy thought is ours above! 
If memory yet can fly,
Back to the golden sky,
And mourn the pleasures lost! 
By the ruin’d hall these flowers we lay,
Where thy soul once held its palace;
When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay,
And the smile was in the chalice,
And the cithara’s voice
Could bid thy heart rejoice
When night eclipsed the day.

Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music into a quicker and more joyous strain.

II

Death, death is the gloomy shore
Where we all sail—­
Soft, soft, thou gliding oar;
Blow soft, sweet gale! 
Chain with bright wreaths the Hours;
Victims if all
Ever, ’mid song and flowers,
Victims should fall!

Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the silver-footed music: 

Since Life’s so short, we’ll live to laugh,
Ah! wherefore waste a minute! 
If youth’s the cup we yet can quaff,
Be love the pearl within it!

A third band now approached with brimming cups, which they poured in libation upon that strange altar; and once more, slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody: 

III

Thou art welcome, Guest of gloom,
From the far and fearful sea! 
When the last rose sheds its bloom,
Our board shall be spread with thee! 
All hail, dark Guest! 
Who hath so fair a plea
Our welcome Guest to be,
As thou, whose solemn hall
At last shall feast us all
In the dim and dismal coast? 
Long yet be we the Host! 
And thou, Dead Shadow, thou,
All joyless though thy brow,
Thou—­but our passing guest!

At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenly took up the song: 

IV