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From which moisture Lyæan exuded, fillets of

poplar,

:

And these words addressed to his sad friends :

"Unto what clime we're borne by Fortune, more kind than a parent,

There let us go, dear friends and companions!

Nought need be feared while Teucer leads and Teucer

directs you;

For our Apollo firmly has promised

That in some foreign region shall a new Salamis

rise up.

O brave hearts! who worse woes have suffered,

And in my cause, oft: now with wine your troubles

dispel ye,

For the wide sea we must traverse to-morrow!"

VIII.

TO LYDIA.

LYDIA, say, by all Gods

Say, I implore, why by thy love

Thou dost make haste to ruin

Sybaris? why detests he

That sunny plain, patiently, once,

Bearing its dust and sun-beams?

Why does he not, of ripe age,

Ride 'mid his peers, as was his wont;

Or, with the curbs dentated,

Break in the Gallic horses?

Why Tiber's tide fears he to touch?

Wherefore the oil of wrestlers,

More than the blood of vipers,

Does he avoid; nor have his limbs

Livid with armour, ever:

He that was once distinguished
Oft for the quoit, oft for the spear

Which he beyond the mark hurled?

Hideth he, as, they say, once,

At the most sad downfal of Troy,

Sea-goddess Thetis' son did,

Fearing his male attire should

Hurry him 'mid fierce Lycian bands,

And amid that fell slaughter?

IX.

TO THALIARCHUS.

BEHOLD how whitened with the deep snow remains

Soracte; nor more lab'ring the wood sustains

Its weight incumbent; and congealed

Stands ev'ry stream by the hard frost sealed!

The cold dispel thou, bounteous with many a brand
The hearth up-piling: then with a lib'ral hand
Bring thou the four-years'-vintage wine forth,
O Thaliarchus, from jar Sabine forth!

The rest resign thou unto the Deities:

When they the wind calm, as with the boiling seas

It struggles, nor the aged ashes

Then, nor the cypress it longer lashes.

To-morrow's fortune ever to seek refrain:

The day that Fate grants ever account as gain :
Nor, while a boy, of love's sweet pleasures

Heedless be thou, or the dance's measures,

As long as grim age from thy green youth abstains. 'Tis now the time for parks, and for martial plains; At night-fall, too, the whispered greeting

At the appointed hour oft repeating.

And now the pleasing laugh of some youthful maid Hath her retired nook where she was hid betrayed; And from her arms a pledge she loses,

Or from her finger that scarce refuses.

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