This was the theme of warm Catullus' lays,

That made his Lesbia's more than Helen's fame; Thus learned Calvus told Quintilia's praise,

Bewailed her death, and sung her honoured name.

How many wounds from fair Lycoris' scorn

Poor Gallus now has washed in Lethe's stream! But Cynthia, too, shall live to times unborn, If fame will but indulge her poet's dream.

H

BOOK IV.

I.

THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG.

Callimachi Manes et Coi sacra Philetae.

SHADE of Callimachus! and thou, sweet spirit,
Coan Philetas! let me tread your grove :
Pure is your font, and I, first priest to stir it,
'Mid Grecian choirs in Latin orgies rove.

Say where ye trimmed your lays-in what charmed grotto?
How trod ye thither? drank what stream divine?
Avaunt, the bard who makes the camp his motto!
Smooth from the pumice flow my tender line!

Thus Fame uplifts me from earth's lower level;
My Muse on flower-crowned steeds in triumph reels;
Borne in my car the little Cupids revel;

And crowds of poets run behind my wheels.

Why press with slackened rein ? O vain endeavour!
Steep is the Muses' hill, nor wide the way:
Many will bid Rome's glory shine for ever,

And Asian Bactra bound the Imperial sway:

But lays of peace I bring from Song's green mountain
By path untrodden; twine soft garlands now,
Ye Nine! who haunt the Pegasaean fountain:
'Tis no rough wreath will suit your poet's brow.