By thy power are lovers joined and parted;
Soothe my troubled soul, for thou as I—
Witness Ariadne-must have smarted,
Ere thy lynxes bore her to the sky.

In my bones the old flames, ever-burning,
Death or wine shall doom to disappear;
Sober nights keep lonely lovers turning
On their couch, distraught by hope and fear.

But if thou this fever fierce dispellest,
Wooing o'er my weary soul to sleep,
I thy vines will plant, train trimly-trellised,
And secure from prowling wild beasts keep.

Foam my vats with purple must, and tender
Grapes ne'er fail my treading feet to stain!
And to thee, O hornèd god! I'll render
Homage all my days that yet remain..

I-thy poet styled-shall sing thy valour,-
Sing thy birth when bolts Aetnean flew ;
Tell how Indian armèd hosts in pallor
Fled before thy dread Nysaean crew;

Sing Lycurgus' fury, unavailing,

At the planting of thy gladsome tree;
Sing of impious Pentheus-theme ne'er failing
To delight thee-slain by Maenads three;

Tyrrhene pirates, changed to dolphins, leaping
From the ship where sprang the sprouting vine;
And thy sweet-breath'd streams through Naxos sweeping,
Whence the men of Naxos quaff thy wine;

Neck with clustered ivy-berries glowing-
Streaming locks with Tyrian turban bound--
Ivory shoulders with sweet unguents flowing-
Trailing robe thy snow-white feet around d;

Here, Dircaean nymphs soft tabours dashing, Horn-hoof'd Fauns with gaping reeds in handThere, hoarse cymbals great Cybebe dashing, Turret-crowned, 'mid Ida's roving band;

Golden bowl to pay the meet oblation—
Ministering priest before thy shrine,
Crowning all the rites with due libation,
From the cup a-brim with purple wine :

In no humble strain these themes I'll thunder,
Like a peal from deep-mouthed Pindar's breast—
Only burst this cruel bond asunder,

Lull, O lull my aching head to rest!

XVIII.

THE DEATH OF MARCELLUS.

Clausus ab umbroso qua ludit pontus Averno.

WHERE barred from dark Avernus sports the wave, And Baiae's steaming waters warm the soilWhere lies Misenus in his sandy grave,

And sounds the road paved with Herculean toil;

Here-when earth's cities felt his strong right arm, Loud clashed the cymbals to the Theban god— Fell Baiae now, and fraught with grievous harm! What baleful power has in thy waters trod?

Here sank to Stygian streams the flower of men,
And in thy lake a spirit now he roams.

Say what availed him rank or virtue then,

A mother's care and Caesar's home of homes?

What-crowded theatres with awnings gay?
His work his mother did with labour due?
He died ere twenty summers passed away;
So many virtues his! his years so few !

Go cheer thee, and of glorious triumphs dream;
List the thronged theatres' applauding call;
Outshine proud Attalus; let jewels gleam

In splendid games-the fire will claim them all.

Here all-or rich or poor-alike must fare;
This path, though loathèd, all must tread in time,
The triple-headed hound implore in prayer,

And the dark raft of Hell's grim boatman climb.

Though brass and steel encase the wary wight, Death drags his head from forth his mask of mail; Nor doth fair Nireus' face, Achilles' might,

Or Croesus' gold, Pactolus-poured, avail.

Such woe swept off the unconscious Greeks of yore, When second love cost great Atrides dear;

But O may he who to the fatal shore

Bears the blest shades across the dismal mere,

Bear to its goal Marcellus' lifeless clay,
By that same course the lord of Sicily,
Brave Claudius, took, and Caesar sailed away
From human paths to gem the starry sky!

XIX.

ON FEMALE INCONTINENCE.

Obicitur totiens a te mihi nostra libido.

You often taunt me with my hot desire;

Believe me, you're consumed with fiercer fire.
When once you've burst the reins and spurned control,

You know not how to curb your smitten soul:
Sooner shall fire be quenched in burning grain,
And rivers seek their fountain-heads again,
Syrt a calm port and wild Malea yield

A tranquil shore, and the poor sailor shield,
Than mortal e'er your mad career arrest,
And check the fury of your vicious breast.
Lo! she who bore the Cretan bull's disdain
Put false fir cow-horns on, her end to gain ;
Salmonis burning for Enipeus' arms,

Gave to the river-god her maiden charms;
Foul Myrrha left her aged father's bed

To screen 'neath new-born leaves her hateful head :
Why name Medea's love, which, turned to hate,
Butchered her babes the mother's ire to sate?

Or Clytemnestra, whose unholy flame

Made Pelops' royal house Mycenae's shame?
Scylla, for Minos' beauty all a-fire,

Shore the bright lock whose loss discrowned her sire.