Classic Poem

Whence comes this bowl, by Mys or Myron made,
By Mentor or by Polycleitus graved?
No leaden spots upon its surface stay,
Nor cloudy mass that fears the fire's assay.
Its golden ore more bright than amber gleams,
Its frosted silver snow-white ivory seems.
And with like skill is the fair metal dight,
Round as the moon in full refulgent light.
A goat stands out arrayed in fleece of gold,
Such as fair Helli might have loved of old;
E'en a Cinyphian shearer would repine
To shear his coat, and Bacchus give his vine.
A golden love two-winged across him strides.
And blithely pipes as on his back he rides,
E'en as a dolphin once Arion bore,
A vocal burden, to the further shore.
No menial slave must fill this bowl with wine;
Cestus, the hand that bears it must be thine.
Pour thou the nectar, gracious one; for see
Both goat and god are fain to drink with me:
And let the giver's name its letters lend
I STANTI R UFI to the cups you blend.
If Telethusa comes at this, love's hour,
I'll keep myself for her and drink but four:
If she is doubtful, then I'll toss off seven:
But if she comes not, I'll have all eleven.