Soon as that name was heard, the woods Shook off their snows; the melting floods Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away. Once more the earth was decked with flowers; Mild zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers; High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day.

Attracted by the harmonious sound, Sylvans and fauns the cot surround, And curious crowd the minstrel to behold: The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove; Eager they run; they list, they love, And while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.

Cupid, to nothing constant long, Perched on the harp attends the song, Or stifles with a kiss the dulcet notes: Now on the poet’s breast reposes, Now twines his hoary locks with roses, Or borne on wings of gold in wanton circle floats.

Then thus Anacreon⁠—“I no more At other shrine my vows will pour, Since Cupid deigns my numbers to inspire: From Phoebus or the blue-eyed maid Now shall my verse request no aid, For love alone shall be the patron of my lyre.

“In lofty strain, of earlier days, I spread the king’s or hero’s praise, And struck the martial chords with epic fire: But farewell, hero! farewell, king! Your deeds my lips no more shall sing, For love alone shall be the subject of my lyre.

The Marquis returned the paper with a smile of encouragement.