Page:Keats - Poetical Works, DeWolfe, 1884.djvu/171

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In pale contented sort of discontent, Lycius," said he, "for uninvited guest To force himself upon you, and infest With an unbidden presence the bright throng Of younger friends; yet must I do this wrong, And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd and led The old man through the inner doors broadspread; With reconciling words and courteous mien Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen.


 * Of wealthy lustre was the banquet-room,

Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume. Before each lucid panel fuming stood A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood, Each by a sacred tripod held aloft, Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft Wool-woofed carpets: fifty wreaths of smoke From fifty censers their light voyage took To the high roof, still mimick'd as they rose Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous. Twelve sphered tables by silk seats insphered, High as the level of a man's breast rear'd On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. Thus loaded with a feast the tables stood, Each shrining in the midst the image of a God.


 * When in an antechamber every guest

Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd,