Time goads us on, relentless Sire! On to the shadowy Shape, that stands Terrific on the funeral pyre, Waving the already kindled brands.-- Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed, Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed. Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood, That skirts the verge of mortal light, He chains the Forms, on earth that stood Proud, and gigantic in their might; That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide. In vain the bleeding field we shun, In vain the loud and whelming wave; And, as autumnal winds come on, And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave, Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar, In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door. The universal lot ordains We seek the black Cocytus' stream, That languid strays thro' dreary plains, Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam; Where the fell Brides their fruitless toil bemoan, And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone. Thy tender wife, thy large domain, Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command; And of those various trees, that gain Their culture from thy fost'ring hand, The Cypress only shall await thy doom, Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely tomb! TO LYCE, ON HER REFUSING TO ADMIT HIS VISITS. BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TENTH. Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave, Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave, A barbarous Scythian's Bride, Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear Your Lover braves the winds severe, That pierce his aching side. O listen to the howling groves, That labour o'er your proud alcoves, And hear the jarring door! Mark how the star, at eve that rose, Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows, While every leaf is hoar! Gay Venus hates this cold disdain;-- Cease then its rigors to maintain, That sprightly joys impede, Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind The freedom of my amorous mind, In rapid whirl recede! Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire, Did he transmit his ardent fire That, like Ulysses' Queen, His beauteous Daughter still should prove Relentless to the sighs of Love, With frozen heart and mien?-- If nor blue cheek of shivering Swain, Nor yet his richest gifts obtain Your smile, and soft'ning brow; Nor if a faithless Husband's rage For a gay Syren of the stage, And broken nuptial vow; If weak e'en _Jealousy_ should prove To bend your heart to truer love, Yet pity these my pains, O Nymph, than oaks more hard, and fierce As snakes, that Afric's thickets pierce, Those terrors of the plains! When heavy falls the pattering shower, And streaming spouts their torrents pour Upon my shrinking head, Not always shall wild Love command These limbs obsequiously to stand Beneath your dropping shed. [1]TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BLANDUSIA. BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE THIRTEENTH.