The lubricating oil refuse ?
Why does the galling steel no longer bruise
Those arms, which oft the discus round
Or javelin hurl'd beyond th' extremest bound ?
Why lurks he now, as erst, they say, When near approach'd proud Ilion's fatal day,
The son of Thetis lurk’d, amid
The train of virgins, ignominious, hid,
Lest, by his manly garb betray'd, .
The toils of war should claim the seeming maid ?
Mark how upon Soracte's height
The snow lies deep; how lab’ring woods
Beneath th' unwonted burthen bow;
How stay their course th’imprison'd floods.
Pile, Thaliarchus, pile on high
The blazing logs, and mock at cold:
This gen’rous flagon freely ply
Of Sabine vintage four years old.
Permitte divis cætera; qui simul
Stravere ventos æquore fervido
Deprceliantes; nec cupressi,
Nec veteres agitantur orni.
Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quærere; et
Quem sors dierum cunque dabit, lucro
Appone; nec dulces amores
Sperne puer, neque tu choreas,
Donec virenti canities abest
Morosa. Nunc et campus, et areæ,
Lenesque sub noctem susurri
Composita repetantur hora :
Nunc et latentis proditor intimo
Gratus puellæ risus ab angulo,
Pignusque dereptum lacertis
Aut digito male pertinaci.
Leave to the Gods all else : when they
Compose the warring winds and seas,
The cypress bough, the ashen spray,
No longer quiver in the breeze,
Think for the morrow nought; enjoy
Each day the boons bestow'd by chance;
Nor rudely spurn, too happy boy,
Or love's delights, or joyous dance,
While crabbed age is far away.
Now manly sports beseem thy years,
And whispers soft, at close of day,
How sweetly breath'd in willing ears !
And tell-tale laugh of merry maid
In corner hid; and slender wrist
Of bracelet spoil'd, or ring convey'd
From fingers that but half resist.
Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi
Finem Dî dederint, Leuconoë; nec Babylonios
Tentaris numeros. Ut melius, quicquid erit, pati !
Seu plures hiemes, seu tribuit Jupiter ultimam,
Quæ nunc oppositis debilitat pumicibus mare
Tyrrhenum. Sapias, vina liques, et spatio brevi
Spem longam reseces. Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Ætas; carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
Tam cari capitis ? Præcipe lugubres
Cantus, Melpomene, cui liquidam pater
Vocem cum cithara dedit.
SEEK not, Leuconoë, ('tis sinful) to explore
What term of life for thee or me may
be in store,
Nor tempt Chaldean myst’ries ! wiser far, whate'er
Our future fate may send, with cheerful mind to bear.
Whether long years be ours, or this may be the last,
Which hears the Tuscan waves, driv'n by the wintry blast
Break on th’opposing rocks. Be wise; pour forth the wine;
Within our narrow span thy wand'ring hopes confine:
Ev’n while we speak, our years are slipping fast away;
Trust not th’uncertain future, grasp the fleeting day.
What bounds to grief for loss of one so dear
Shall reason fix ? the mournful verse inspire,
Melpomene, whose accents, soft and clear,
Suit well the tuneful lyre.
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