So to your shrine, O patron mine,
With precious wine and victims fare you;
Poor as I am,
A humble lamb
Must testify what love I bear you.
But to the skies shall sweetly rise
The sacrifice from shrine and heather,
And thither bear
The solemn prayer
That, when we go, we go together!
HORACE’S “SAILOR AND SHADE.”
You, who have compassed land and sea
Now all unburied lie;
All vain your store of human lore,
For you were doomed to die.
The sire of Pelops likewise fell,
Jove’s honored mortal guest—
So king and sage of every age
At last lie down to rest.
Plutonian shades enfold the ghost
Of that majestic one
Who taught as truth that he, forsooth,
Had once been Pentheus’ son;
Believe who may, he’s passed away
And what he did is done.
A last night comes alike to all—
One path we all must tread,
Through sore disease or stormy seas
Or fields with corpses red—
Whate’er our deeds that pathway leads
To regions of the dead.
The fickle twin Illyrian gales
O’erwhelmed me on the wave—
But that you live, I pray you give
My bleaching bones a grave!
Oh, then when cruel tempests rage
You all unharmed shall be—
Jove’s mighty hand shall guard by land
And Neptune’s on the sea.
Perchance you fear to do what shall
Bring evil to your race.
Or, rather fear that like me here
You’ll lack a burial place.
So, though you be in proper haste,
Bide long enough I pray,
To give me, friend, what boon will send
My soul upon its way!
Yonder stands the hillside chapel,
’Mid the evergreens and rocks,
All day long it hears the song
Of the shepherd to his flocks.
Then the chapel bell goes tolling—
Knolling for a soul that’s sped;
Silent and sad the shepherd lad
Hears the requiem for the dead.
Shepherd, singers of the valley,
Voiceless now, speed on before;
Soon shall knell that chapel bell
For the songs you’ll sing no more.
“THE HAPPY ISLES” OF HORACE.
Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles
In the golden haze off yonder,
Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles
And the ocean loves to wander.
Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills,
Proudly the fig rejoices,
Merrily dance the virgin rills,
Blending their myriad voices.
Our herds shall suffer no evil there,
But peacefully feed and rest them—
Never thereto shall prowling bear
Or serpent come to molest them.