Each flock in the rich grass gambols
When the month comes which is thine;
And the happy village rambles

Fieldward with the idle kine:

Lambs play on, the wolf their neighbor:
Wild woods deck thee with their spoil;
And with glee the sons of labor

Stamp upon their foe the soil.

TO A SHIP

YET on fresh billows seaward wilt thou ride,

O ship? What dost thou? Seek a hav'n, and there Rest thee: for lo! thy side

Is oarless all and bare,

And the swift southwest wind hath maimed thy mast, And thy yards creak, and, every cable lost,

Yield must thy keel at last

On tyrannous sea-waves tossed

Too rudely. Goodly canvas is not thine,

Nor gods, to hear thee when thy need is sorest:

True, thou a Pontic pine,

Child of a stately forest

Boast'st rank and empty name: but little trust
The frightened seamen in a painted stern.

Stay

Flee

or be mocked thou must

By every wind in turn.

what of late sore burden was to me,

Now a sad memory and a bitter pain,

Those shining Cyclads flee,

That stud the far-off main.

TO VIRGIL

UNSHAMED, unchecked, for one so dear
We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir,
Melpomene, to whom thy sire

Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear!

TEMPLE OF VESTA, NEAR HORACE'S HOME, TIVOLI,

ITALY