One ghostly boat shall some time bear From scenes of mirthfulness or care Each fated human soul!-- Shall waft and leave his burden where The waves of Lethe roll. _So come, I pri' thee, Dellius, mine-- Let's sing our songs and drink our wine In that sequestered nook Where the white poplar and the pine Stand listening to the brook._ THE TWO COFFINS. In yonder old cathedral Two lonely coffins lie; In one the head of the state lies dead, And a singer sleeps hard by. Once had that king great power, And proudly he ruled the land-- His crown e'en now is on his brow And his sword is in his hand! How sweetly sleeps the singer With calmly folded eyes, And on the breast of the bard at rest The harp that he sounded lies. The castle walls are falling And war distracts the land, But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot-- There in that dead king's hand! But with every grace of nature There seems to float along-- To cheer the hearts of men-- The singer's deathless song! HORACE I, 31. As forth he pours the new made wine, What blessing asks the lyric poet-- What boon implores in this fair shrine Of one full likely to bestow it? Not for Sardinia's plenteous store, Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth, Nor yet for India's wealth galore, Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth. Let honest riches celebrate The harvest earned--I'd not deny it; Yet am I pleased with my estate, My humble home, my frugal diet. Child of Latonia, this I crave; May peace of mind and health attend me, And down into my very grave May this dear lyre of mine befriend me! HORACE TO HIS LUTE. If ever in the sylvan shade A song immortal we have made, Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come-- Inspire a song of Latium. A Lesbian first thy glories proved-- In arms and in repose he loved To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise His voice in Love's and Liber's praise; The Muses, too, and him who clings To Mother Venus' apron-strings, And Lycus beautiful, he sung In those old days when you were young. O shell, that art the ornament Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content To Jove, and soothing troubles all-- Come and requite me, when I call! HORACE I, 22. Fuscus, whoso to good inclines-- And is a faultless liver-- Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, Nor poison-arrowed quiver. Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, Or scales the rugged mountains, Or rests beside the murmuring tide Of weird Hydaspan fountains! Lo, on a time, I gayly paced The Sabine confines shady, And sung in glee of Lalage, My own and dearest lady. And, as I sung, a monster wolf Slunk through the thicket from me--- But for that song, as I strolled along He would have overcome me!