The Antique Medal

Ætna still ripes the colors of the vine,
That warmed with its antique Erigone
Theocritus' glad heart; but now not he,
Of those his verse embalmed, could find one sign.

Losing the pure from her profile divine,
Arethusa, who by turns was bond and free,
Mixed in her Grecian blood whatever could be
Of Saracen rage with pride of Anjou's line.

Time flies. All die. Even marble feels death's dews.
Agrigentum's but a shade, while Syracuse
Sleeps under shroud of her indulgent sky;

And but hard metal fashioning love displayed
In silver medals keeps in bloom the high,
Immortal beauty of Sicilian maid.