Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold,
    Nor feverish drought distress us,
  But he that compasseth heat and cold
    Shall temper them both to bless us.

  There no vandal foot has trod,
    And the pirate hordes that wander
  Shall never profane the sacred sod
    Of these beautiful isles out yonder.

  Never a spell shall blight our vines
    Nor Sirius blaze above us. 
  But you and I shall drink our wines
    And sing to the loved that love us.

  So come with me where fortune smiles
    And the gods invite devotion—­
  Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
    In the haze of that far-off ocean!

HORATIAN LYRICS.

  I.

  Odes I, 11.

  What end the gods may have ordained for me,
  And what for thee,
    Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know;
  Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest—­
  ’Tis for the best
    To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.

  If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
  Or this the last,
    Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas;
  Strain clear the wine—­this life is short, at best;
  Take hope with zest,
    And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease!

  II.

  Odes I, 23.

  Why do you shun me, Chloe, like the fawn,
    That, fearful of the breezes and the wood,
  Has sought her timorous mother since the dawn
    And on the pathless mountain tops has stood?

  Her trembling heart a thousand fears invites—­
    Her sinking knees with nameless terrors shake;
  Whether the rustling leaf of spring affrights,
    Or the green lizards stir the slumbering brake.

  I do not follow with a tigerish thought
    Or with the fierce Gaetulian lion’s quest;
  So, quickly leave your mother, as you ought,
    Full ripe to nestle on a husband’s breast.

  HORACE II, 13.

  O fountain of Blandusia,
    Whence crystal waters flow,
  With garlands gay and wine I’ll pay
    The sacrifice I owe;
  A sportive kid with budding horns
    I have, whose crimson blood
  Anon shall die and sanctify
    Thy cool and babbling flood.

  O fountain of Blandusia,
    The dogstar’s hateful spell
  No evil brings unto the springs
    That from thy bosom well;
  Here oxen, wearied by the plow,
    The roving cattle here,
  Hasten in quest of certain rest
    And quaff thy gracious cheer.

  O fountain of Blandusia,
    Ennobled shalt thou be,
  For I shall sing the joys that spring
    Beneath your ilex tree;
  Yes, fountain of Blandusia,
    Posterity shall know
  The cooling brooks that from thy nooks
    Singing and dancing go!

  HORACE IV, II.

  Come, Phyllis, I’ve a cask of wine
    That fairly reeks with precious juices. 
  And in your tresses you shall twine
    The loveliest flowers this vale produces.