As the Evian on the height,Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,So my truant eyes admireThe banks, the desolate forests. O great KingWho the Naiads dost inspire,And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!Not a lowly strain is mine,No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweetThee to follow, God of wine,Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!For ladies' love I late was fit,And good success my warfare blest,But now my arms, my lyre I quit,And hang them up to rust or rest.Here, where arising from the seaStands Venus, lay the load at last,Links, crowbars, and artillery,Threatening all doors that dared be fast.