[1] Asclepiades, Julianus Ægyptus.

[1]

  AN IMMORALITY Sing we for love and idleness, Naught else is worth the having. Though I have been in many a land, There is naught else in living. And I would rather have my sweet, Though rose-leaves die of grieving, Than do high deeds in Hungary To pass all men's believing. DIEU! QU'IL LA FAIT From Charles D'Orleans For music God! that mad'st her well regard her, How she is so fair and bonny; For the great charms that are upon her Ready are all folk to reward her. Who could part him from her borders When spells are alway renewed on her? God! that mad'st her well regard her, How she is so fair and bonny. From here to there to the sea's border, Dame nor damsel there's not any Hath of perfect charms so many. Thoughts of her are of dream's order: God! that mad'st her well regard her. SALVE PONTIFEX  (A.C.S.)   One after one they leave thee, High Priest of Iacchus, Intoning thy melodies as winds intone The whisperings of leaves on sunlit days. And the sands are many And the seas beyond the sands are one In ultimate, so we here being many Are unity; nathless thy compeers, Knowing thy melody, Lulled with the wine of thy music Go seaward silently, leaving thee sentinel O'er all the mysteries, High Priest of Iacchus. For the lines of life lie under thy fingers, And above the vari-coloured strands Thine eyes look out unto the infinitude Of the blue waves of heaven, And even as Triplex Sisterhood Thou fingerest the threads knowing neither Cause nor the ending, High Priest of Iacchus, Draw'st forth a multiplicity Of strands, and, beholding The colour thereof, raisest thy voice Towards the sunset, O High Priest of Iacchus! And out of the secrets of the inmost mysteries Thou chantest strange far-sourced canticles: O High Priest of Iacchus! Life and the ways of Death her Twin-born sister, that is life's counterpart, And of night and the winds of night; Silent voices ministering to the souls Of hamadryads that hold council concealèd In streams and tree-shadowing Forests on hill slopes, O High Priest of Iacchus, All the manifold mystery Thou makest a wine of song, And maddest thy following even With visions of great deeds And their futility, O High Priest of Iacchus! Though thy co-novices are bent to the scythe Of the magian wind that is voice of Persephone, Leaving thee solitary, master of initiating Mænads that come through the Vine-entangled ways of the forest Seeking, out of all the world, Madness of Iacchus, That being skilled in the secrets of the double cup They might turn the dead of the world Into pæans, O High Priest of Iacchus, Wreathed with the glory of thy years of creating Entangled music, Breathe! Now that 

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