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Ah, happy friend! for whom an eye,
Of splendid, and resistless fire,
Lays all its pointed arrows by,

For the mild gleams of soft desire!

With what gay spirit does she foil
The pedant's meditated hit!
What happy archness in her smile!
What pointed meaning in her wit!

Her cheek how pure a crimson warms,
When with the Nymphs, in circling line,
Bending she twines her snowy arms,
And dances round Diana's shrine !

MECENAS, would'st not thou exchange
The treasures gorgeous Persia pours,
The wealth of Phrygia's fertile range,
Or warm Arabia's spicy shores,

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,
To meet thy kisses half their way,
Or when her feign'd resentments check
The ardours thy warm lips convey?

While in her eyes the languid light
Betrays a yielding wish to prove,
Amid her coy, yet playful flight,
The pleasing force of fervent love;

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
Proud, and gigantic in their might;

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,
And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone.

Thy tender wife, thy large domain,

Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command;
And of those various trees, that gain
Their culture from thy fost'ring hand,

The Cypress only shall await thy doom, ·

Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely

tomb!

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Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave,

A barbarous Scythian's bride;

Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear
Your lover braves the winds severe,
That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves,
That labour o'er your proud alcoves,

And hear the jarring door!

Mark how the star, at eve that rose,
Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows,
While every leaf is hoar!

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