BOOK I.—ODE IX.
I.
How white Soracte stands, behold,
With lofty snows! Its labouring trees
Groan ’neath the weight. The rivers freeze
And flow no more, congeal’d by cold.
II.
Replenish largely from your store
The fire with logs, dispel the chill;
And wine, the cherish’d four-year old,
From Sabine cask more freely fill.
III.
Leave to the gods the rest: whose word,
Soon as it lulls the boiling seas
Battling with winds, the cypress trees,
And aged elms, no more are stirr’d.
IV.
Ask not, to-morrow what may chance,
Count it for gain whate’er betide:
Nor spurn, to peevish age denied,
Soft loves, my boy, nor yet the dance:
V.
Whilst hoary age, morose and sour,
Spares thy green spring, youth’s pastimes light
By day, soft whisperings by night,
Be thine, at the appointed hour,
VI.
The hiding maid’s forced laugh, dear sound,
From secret nook, love’s fond alarm;
The pledge, which beauty’s plunder’d arm,
On irretentive finger bound.