ODE XXII.

TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS.

Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure
Needeth nor javelin nor bow of Moor,
Nor arrows tipp'd with venom deadly-sure,
Loading his quiver;

Whether o'er Afric's burning sands he rides,
Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain-sides,
Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides,
That storied river.

For as I stray'd along the Sabine wood,
Singing my Lalage in careless mood,
Lo, all at once a wolf before me stood,
Then turn'd and fled:

Creature so huge did warlike Daunia ne'er
Engender in her forests' wildest lair,

Not Juba's land, parch'd nurse of lions, e'er
Such monster bred.

Place me, where no life-laden summer breeze Freshens the meads, or murmurs 'mongst the trees, Where clouds, and blighting tempests ever freeze From year to year;

Place me, where neighbouring sunbeams fiercely broil,

A weary waste of scorch'd and homeless soil,
To me my Lalage's sweet voice and smile
Would still be dear!

ODE XXIII.

TO CHLOE.

NAY, hear me, dearest Chloe, pray!
You shun me like a timid fawn,
That seeks its mother all the day
By forest brake and upland lawn,
Of every passing breeze afraid,
And leaf that twitters in the glade.

Let but the wind with sudden rush
The whispers of the wood awake,
Or lizard green disturb the hush,

Quick-darting through the grassy brake, The foolish frightened thing will start, With trembling knees and beating heart.

But I am neither lion fell,

No tiger grim to work you woe;
I love you, sweet one, much too well,
Then cling not to your mother so,
But to a lover's tender arms
Confide your ripe and rosy charms.

ODE XXIV.

TO VIRGIL.

WHY should we stem the tears that needs must flow,
Why blush, that they should freely flow and long?
To think of that dear head in death laid low?
Do thou inspire my melancholy song,
Melpomene, in whom the Muses' sire

Join'd with a liquid voice the mastery of the lyre!

And hath the sleep, that knows no waking morn,
Closed o'er Quinctilius, our Quinctilius dear?
Where shall be found the man of woman born
That in desert might be esteem'd his peer,
So simply meek, and yet so sternly just,
Of faith so pure, and all so absolute of trust?

He sank into his rest, bewept of many,

And but the good and noble wept for him, But dearer cause thou, Virgil, hadst than any,

With friendship's tears thy friendless eyes to dim! Alas, alas! Not to such woful end

Didst thou unto the gods thy pray'rs unceasing send!

What though thou modulate the tuneful shell
With defter skill than Orpheus of old Thrace,
When deftliest he played, and with its spell
Moved all the listening forest from its place,
Yet never, never can thy art avail

To bring life's glowing tide back to the phantom pale,

Whom with his black inexorable wand
Hermes, austere and pitiless as fate,

Hath forced to join the dark and spectral band
In their sad journey to the Stygian gate.

'Tis hard, great heav'ns, how hard! But to endure Alleviates the pang we may nor crush nor cure!

ODE XXV.

TO LYDIA.

SWAINS in numbers Break your slumbers, Saucy Lydia, now but seldom,

Ay, though at your casement nightly, Tapping loudly, tapping lightly, By the dozen once ye held them.

Ever turning,
Night and morning,

Swung your door upon its hinges;
Now, from dawn till evening's closing,
Lone and desolate reposing,
Not a soul its rest infringes.

Serenaders,

Sweet invaders,

Scanter grow, and daily scanter,

Singing, "Lydia, art thou sleeping? Lonely watch thy love is keeping! Wake, Ŏ wake, thou dear enchanter!"

Lorn and faded,

You, as they did,

Woo, and in your turn are slighted;
Worn and torn by passion's fret,

You, the pitiless coquette,

Waste by fires yourself have lighted.