Soon, Sestius, shall Plutonian shades
    Enfold you with their hideous seemings—­
  Then love and mirth and joys of earth
    Shall fade away like fevered dreamings.

LOVE SONG—­HEINE.

  Many a beauteous flower doth spring
    From the tears that flood my eyes,
  And the nightingale doth sing
    In the burthen of my sighs.

  If, O child, thou lovest me,
    Take these flowerets, fair and frail,
  And my soul shall waft to thee
    Love songs of the nightingale.

  HORACE II, 3.

  Be tranquil, Dellius, I pray;
  For though you pine your life away
    With dull complaining breath,
  Or speed with song and wine each day—­
    Still, still your doom is death.

  Where the white poplar and the pine
  In glorious arching shade combine
    And the brook singing goes,
  Bid them bring store of nard and wine
    And garlands of the rose.

  Let’s live while chance and youth obtain—­
  Soon shall you quit this fair domain
    Kissed by the Tiber’s gold,
  And all your earthly pride and gain
    Some heedless heir shall hold.

  One ghostly boat shall some time bear
  From scenes of mirthfulness or care
    Each fated human soul!—­
  Shall waft and leave his burden where
    The waves of Lethe roll.

  So come, I pri’ thee, Dellius, mine—­
  Let’s sing our songs and drink our wine
    In that sequestered nook
  Where the white poplar and the pine
    Stand listening to the brook.

THE TWO COFFINS.

  In yonder old cathedral
    Two lonely coffins lie;
  In one the head of the state lies dead,
    And a singer sleeps hard by.

  Once had that king great power,
    And proudly he ruled the land—­
  His crown e’en now is on his brow
    And his sword is in his hand!

  How sweetly sleeps the singer
    With calmly folded eyes,
  And on the breast of the bard at rest
    The harp that he sounded lies.

  The castle walls are falling
    And war distracts the land,
  But the sword leaps not from that mildewed spot—­
    There in that dead king’s hand!

  But with every grace of nature
    There seems to float along—­
  To cheer the hearts of men—­
    The singer’s deathless song!

  HORACE I, 31.

  As forth he pours the new made wine,
    What blessing asks the lyric poet—­
  What boon implores in this fair shrine
    Of one full likely to bestow it?

  Not for Sardinia’s plenteous store,
    Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth,
  Nor yet for India’s wealth galore,
    Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth.

  Let honest riches celebrate
    The harvest earned—­I’d not deny it;
  Yet am I pleased with my estate,
    My humble home, my frugal diet.