Because there are many things to make life a pleasure. There is the solace of literature; Black Care is lessened by song. There are the riches of philosophy, there is the diversion of moving among men. There are the delights of the country and the town. Above all, there are friends with whom to share the joy of mere living in Italy. For what purpose, if not to enjoy, are the rose, the pine, and the poplar, the gushing fountain, the generous wine of Formian hill and Massic slope, the villa by the Tiber, the peaceful and healthful seclusion of the Sabines, the pleasing change from the sharp winter to the soft zephyrs of spring, the apple-bearing autumn,--"season of mists and mellow fruitfulness"? What need to be unhappy in the midst of such a world? And the man who is wise will not only recognize the abounding possibilities about him, but will seize upon them before they vanish. Who knows whether the gods above will add a tomorrow to the to-day? Be glad, and lay hand upon the gifts of the passing hour! Take advantage of the day, and have no silly faith in the morrow. It is as if Omar were translating Horace: "W_aste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit_ 0_f This and That endeavor and dispute;_ B_etter be jocund with the fruitful Grape_ T_han sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit._ "A_h! fill the Cup: what boots it to repeat_ H_ow Time is slipping underneath our Feet:_ U_nborn tomorrow, and dead yesterday,_ W_hy fret about them if today be sweet!"_ The goods of existence must be enjoyed here and now, or never, for all must be left behind. What once is enjoyed is forever our very own. Happy is the man who can say, at each day's close, "I have lived!" The day is his, and cannot be recalled. Let Jove overcast with black cloud the heavens of to-morrow, or let him make it bright with clear sunshine,--as he pleases; what the flying hour of to-day has already given us he never can revoke. Life is a stream, now gliding peacefully onward in mid-channel to the Tuscan sea, now tumbling upon its swirling bosom the wreckage of flood and storm. The pitiful human being on its banks, ever looking with greedy expectation up the stream, or with vain regret at what is past, is left at last with nothing at all. The part of wisdom and of happiness is to keep eyes on that part of the stream directly before us, the only part which is ever really seen. Y_ou see how, deep with gleaming snow,_ S_oracte stands, and, bending low,_ Y_on branches droop beneath their burden,_ A_nd streams o'erfrozen have ceased their flow._ A_way with cold! the hearth pile high_ W_ith blazing logs; the goblet ply_ W_ith cheering Sabine, Thaliarchus;_ D_raw from the cask of long years gone by._ A_ll else the gods entrust to keep,_ W_hose nod can lull the winds to sleep,_ V_exing the ash and cypress aged,_ O_r battling over the boiling deep._