My walls with silver vessels shine; Chaste vervain decks the modest shrine, That longs with crimson stains To see its foliage sprinkled o'er, When the devoted Lamb shall pour The treasure of his veins.
The household Girls, and menial Boy, From room to room assiduous fly, And busy hands extend; Our numerous fires are quivering bright, And, rolling from their pointed height, The dusky wreaths ascend[1].
Convivial rites, in mystic state, Thou, lovely Nymph, shalt celebrate, And give the day to mirth That this [2]Love-chosen month divides; Since honor'd rose its blooming ides By dear Mæcenas' birth.
O! not to _me_ my natal star So sacred seems;--then, Nymph, prepare To grace its smiling dawn! A wealthier Maid, in pleasing chains, Illustrious [3]Telephus detains, From humble THEE withdrawn.
When Pride would daring hopes create, Of Phaeton recall the fate, Consum'd in his career! Let rash Bellerophon, who tried The fiery Pegasus to guide, Awake thy prudent fear!
Thus warn'd, thy better interest know, And cease those charming eyes to throw On Youths of high degree! Come then, of all my Loves the last, For, every other passion past, I only burn for thee!
Come, and with tuneful voice rehearse The measures of thy Poet's verse And charm the list'ning Throng! Believe me, Fairest, all our cares Will soften at the melting airs That deck the lyric song.
1: The Romans made fires in the middle of their rooms, with an hole in the ceiling, to let out the smoke, which is described as rolling to the top of the House.
2: The feast of Venus was held by the Romans in April.
3: It is agreed that this is the same young Nobleman, to whom the Ode is addressed, on Licinius being appointed Augur, and which has been paraphrased in this Collection.
Thrice happy he, whose life restores The pleasures pure of early times; That ne'er, with anxious heart, explores The rugged heights Ambition climbs; Exempt from all the din, the toil, the care, That Cities for their busy Sons prepare; Fatigue, beneath the name of pleasure, Contentious law, usurious treasure, A tedious mean attendance on the Great, And emulation vain of all their pomp and state.
Not his sound and balmy sleep The trumpet's martial warning breaks; Nor the loud billows of the angry Deep, When thro' the straining cords the Tempest shrieks; But the Morning's choral lay, Chanted wild from every spray. Swift at the summons flies the wilder'd dream, And up he springs alert, to meet the orient beam.