For him the bursting clusters sweet Were in the wine-press trod; Song followed soon, a prompting of the god, And rhythmic dance of lightly leaping feet. Of Bacchus the o'er-wearied swain receives Deliverance from all his pains; Bacchus gives comfort when a mortal grieves, And mirth to men in chains. Not to Osiris toils and tears belong, But revels and delightful song; Lightly beckoning loves are thine! Garlands deck thee, god of wine! We hear thee coming, with the flute's refrain, With fruit of ivy on thy forehead bound, Thy saffron vesture streaming to the ground. And thou hast garments, too, of Tyrian stain, When thine ecstatic train Bear forth thy magic ark to mysteries divine. Immortal guest, our games and pageant share! Smile on the flowing cup, and hail With us the _Genius_ of this natal day! From whose anointed, rose-entwisted hair, Arabian odors waft away. If thou the festal bless, I will not fail To burn sweet incense unto him and thee, And offerings of Arcadian honey bear. So grant Messala fortunes ever fair! Of such a sire the children worthy be! Till generations two and three Surround his venerated chair! See, winding upward through the Latin land, Yon highway past, the Alban citadel, At great Messala's mandate made, In fitted stones and firm-set gravel laid, Thy monument forever more to stand! The mountain-villager thy fame will tell, When through the darkness wending late from Rome, He foots it smoothly home. O Genius of this natal day, May many a year thy gift declare! Now bright and fair thy pinions soar away,-- Return, thou bright and fair! ELEGY THE NINTH TO PHOLOE AND MARATHUS The language of a lover's eyes I cannot choose but see; The oracles in tender sighs were never dark to me. No art of augury I need, nor heart of victims slain, Nor birds of omen singing forth the future's bliss or bane. Venus herself did round my arm th' enchanted wimple throw, And taught me--Ah! not unchastised!--what wizardry I know. Deceive me then no more! The god more furiously burns Whatever wight rebelliously his first commandment spurns. _To Pholoe_ Fair Pholoe! what profits it to plait thy flowing hair? Why rearrange each lustrous tress with fond, superfluous care? Why tint that blooming cheek anew? Or give thy fingers, Girl! To slaves who keep the dainty tips a perfect pink and pearl? Why strain thy sandal-string so hard? or why the daily change Of mantles, robes, and broideries, of fashions new and strange? Howe'er thou hurry from thy glass in careless disarray, Thou canst not miss the touch that steals thy lover's heart away! Thou needst not ask some wicked witch her potion to provide, Brewed of the livid, midnight herbs, to draw him to thy side. Her magic from a neighbor's field the coming crop can charm, Or stop the viper's lifted sting before it work thee harm.