Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-year
He comes and goes across the brine
Undamaged. I in plenty here
On endives, mallows, succory dine.
O grant me, Phœbus, calm content,
Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire,
Old age without dishonour spent,
Nor unbefriended by the lyre!
XXXII.
Poscimur.
THEY call;—if aught in shady dell
We twain have warbled, to remain
Long months or years, now breathe, my shell,
A Roman strain,
Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,
The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,
Or haply mooring to the strand
His batter'd keel,
Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,
And Cupid, still at Venus' side,
And Lycus, beautiful and young,
Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.
O sweetest lyre, to Phœbus dear,
Delight of Jove's high festival,
Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear
Whene'er I call!
D
