Child of Latonia, this I crave;
    May peace of mind and health attend me,
  And down into my very grave
    May this dear lyre of mine befriend me!

HORACE TO HIS LUTE.

  If ever in the sylvan shade
  A song immortal we have made,
  Come now, O lute, I pri’ thee come—­
  Inspire a song of Latium.

  A Lesbian first thy glories proved—­
  In arms and in repose he loved
  To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise
  His voice in Love’s and Liber’s praise;
  The Muses, too, and him who clings
  To Mother Venus’ apron-strings,
  And Lycus beautiful, he sung
  In those old days when you were young.

  O shell, that art the ornament
  Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
  To Jove, and soothing troubles all—­
  Come and requite me, when I call!

  HORACE I, 22.

  Fuscus, whoso to good inclines—­
    And is a faultless liver—­
  Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear,
    Nor poison-arrowed quiver.

  Ay, though through desert wastes he roams,
    Or scales the rugged mountains,
  Or rests beside the murmuring tide
    Of weird Hydaspan fountains!

  Lo, on a time, I gayly paced
    The Sabine confines shady,
  And sung in glee of Lalage,
    My own and dearest lady.

  And, as I sung, a monster wolf
    Slunk through the thicket from me—–­
  But for that song, as I strolled along
    He would have overcome me!

  Set me amid those poison mists
    Which no fair gale dispelleth,
  Or in the plains where silence reigns
    And no thing human dwelleth;

  Still shall I love my Lalage—­
    Still sing her tender graces;
  And, while I sing my theme shall bring
    Heaven to those desert places!

  THE “ARS POETICA” OF HORACE

  XXIII.

    I love the lyric muse! 
  For when mankind ran wild in groves,
    Came holy Orpheus with his songs
  And turned men’s hearts from bestial loves,
    From brutal force and savage wrongs;
  Came Amphion, too, and on his lyre
    Made such sweet music all the day
  That rocks, instinct with warm desire,
    Pursued him in his glorious way.

    I love the lyric muse! 
  Hers was the wisdom that of yore
    Taught man the rights of fellow-man—­
  Taught him to worship God the more
    And to revere love’s holy ban;
  Hers was the hand that jotted down
    The laws correcting divers wrongs—­
  And so came honor and renown
    To bards and to their noble songs.

    I love the lyric muse! 
  Old Homer sung unto the lyre,
    Tyrtaeus, too, in ancient days—­
  Still, warmed by their immortal fire,
    How doth our patriot spirit blaze! 
  The oracle, when questioned, sings—­
    So we our way in life are taught;
  In verse we soothe the pride of kings,
    In verse the drama has been wrought.