Ah, happy friend! for whom an eye, For the mild gleams of soft desire! With what gay spirit does she foil Her cheek how pure a crimson warms, MECENAS, would'st not thou exchange For one light ringlet of the hair, Which shades thy sweet. LICINIA's face, In that dear moment when the fair, In flying from thy fond embrace, 1. 12. Diana's shrine-The Roman ladies, according to ancient custom, danced with entwined arms, around the Altar of Diana, on the day of her Festival. Relenting turns her snowy neck, While in her eyes the languid light Or when, in gaily-frolic guise, She snatches her fair self the kiss, E'en at the instant she denies Her lover the requested bliss? ΤΟ POSTHUMUS. ROOK THE SECOND, ODE THE FOURTEENTH. ALAS! My POSTHUMUS, the years Unpausing glide away; Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers, Their fleeting pace delay; Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend, Nor from the stoop of age the faltering frame defend. Time goads us on, relentless sire! On to the shadowy shape, that stands Terrific on the funeral pyre, Waving the already kindled brands. Thou canst not slacken his reluctant speed, Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed. Beyond the dim lake's mournful flood, That skirts the verge of mortal light, He chains the forms, on earth that stood That gloomy lake, o'er whose oblivious tide Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide. In vain the bleeding field we shun, In vain the loud and whelming wave; And, as autumnal winds come on, And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave, Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar, In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door. The universal lot ordains We seek the black Cocytus' stream, That languid strays thro' dreary plains, Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam; Where the fell brides their fruitless toil bemoan, Thy tender wife, thy large domain, Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command; The Cypress only shall await thy doom, · Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely tomb! Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave, A barbarous Scythian's bride; Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear O listen to the howling groves, And hear the jarring door! Mark how the star, at eve that rose, |