PHYLLIS, this Alban cask is thine,
Mellow'd by summers more than nine,
And in my garden, for thy head
My parsley-crowns their verdure spread:
For thee the creeping ivy twines,
With plate my cheerful dwelling shines:
With vervain chaste an altar bound,
Now thirsts for blood; the victim's crown'd.
All hands employ'd; my girls and boys,
With busy haste, prepare our joys;
Trembling the pointed flames arise,
Their smoke rolls upward to the skies,
But why this busy, festal care?
This invitation to the fair?
This day the smiling month divides,
O'er which the sea-born queen presides;
Sacred to me, and due to mirth,
As the glad hour that gave me birth;
For when this happy morn appears,
Mæcenas counts a length of years
To roll in bright succession round,
With every joy and blessing crown'd.
Gay Telephus exults above
The humble fortunes of thy love,
And a rich buxom maid detains
His captive heart in willing chains.
The youth, destroy'd by heavenly fire, Forbids ambition to aspire,
And Pegasus, who scorn'd to bear
His earth-born rider thro' the air,
A dread example hath supply'd
To check the growth of human pride,
And caution my presumptuous fair
To grasp at things within her sphere.
Come then my latest love (for I
Shall never for another die)
Come learn with me to newer lays
Thy voice of harmony to raise.
The soothing song, and charming air
Shall lessen every gloomy care.
COMPANIONS of the spring, the Thracian winds
With kindly breath now drive the bark from
No frost, with hoary hand, the meadow binds,
Nor swoln with winter snow the torrents roar.
The swallow, hapless bird! now builds her nest,
And in complaining notes begins to sing,
That, with revenge too cruelly possest,
Impious she punish'd an incestuous king,
Stretch'd on the springing grass the shepherd swain His reedy pipe with rural music fills;
The god, who guards his flock, approves the strain, The god, who loves Arcadia's gloomy hills.
Virgil, 'tis thine, with noble youths to feast,
Yet, since the thirsty season calls for wine, Would you a cup of generous Bacchus taste, Bring you the odors, and a cask is thine.
Thy little box of spikenard shall produce
A mighty cask, that in the cellar lies;
Big with large hopes shall flow th' inspiring juice,
Powerful to soothe our griefs, and raise our joys.
If pleasures such as these can charm thy soul,
Bring the glad merchandise, with sweets replete,
Nor empty-handed shall you touch the bowl,
Nor mean I like swoln opulence to treat.
Think on the gloomy pyle's funereal flames,
And be no more with sordid lucre blind;
Mix a short folly with thy labor'd schemes;
"Tis joyous folly, that unbends the mind.
THE gods, the gods have heard my prayer,
See, Lyce, see that hoary hair,
Yet you a toast would shine:
You impudently drink and joke,
And with a broken voice provoke
Desires no longer thine.
Cupid, who joys in dimple sleek,
Now lies in blooming Chia's cheek,
Who tunes the melting lay;
From blasted oaks the wanton flies,
Scar'd at thy wrinkles, haggard eyes,
And head snow'd o'er with grey.
Nor glowing purple, nor the blaze
Of jewels, can restore the days;
To thee those days of glory,
Which, wafted on the wings of time,
Even from thy birth to beauty's prime,
Recorded stand in story.
Ah! whether is thy Venus fled ?
That bloom, by nature's cunning spread?
That every graceful art?
Of her, of her, what now remains,
Who breath'd the loves, who charm'd the swains, And snatch'd me from my heart?
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