True, Chloe now does claim a part,
And with her lyre sways my heart;
For her, my soul’s loved consort—mine,
All to death would I resign!
LYDIA.
For me sweet Calai’s spirit burns,
And love for love my soul returns,
Twice would I death’s grim terrors dare,
That fates my gentle youth should spare!
HORACE.
Should love’s delicious dream again,
Fling round our souls that golden chain,
And Chloe hence depart fore’er,
That chain again would Lydia wear?
LYDIA.
Thou, fair as Hesperus of heaven;
Thou, light as is the breath of even,
Yet rasher than the impetuous sea,
I would live and die with thee!
Horace, Ode xvi., Book iii.
The brazen tower on Argo’s shore,
With turret high and bolted door,
And watchful dogs in ambuscade,
Had well secured the enamored maid,
But Jupiter—as fates foretold—
Descending in a shower of gold,
Allured the guards such sight to see,
And thus fulfilled the dread decree;
For well ’twas known no human power
Could e’er withstand the tempting shower.
Oh gold! whate’er be thy delight,
Must yield to thy resistless might;
Even faithful guards for thee retire,
And, perjured, own their base desire;
And walls of stone that have defied
The wrath of Jove, are hurled aside.
’Tis known by thy resistless sway,
The charms of beauty melt away,
And gates divide, and tyrants fall,
And shattered yields the embattled wall,
Kingdoms to endless night are hurled,
And Ruin rages o’er the world.
The insatiate thirst for gaining more,
But adds to wealth’s increasing store,—
Then, oh, Mæcenas, pride of Rome,
Whose banners wave o’er Freedom’s home,—
Care not for pomp and splendor great,
For gold can give—but cannot sate;
He who temptation’s power defies,
Shall gain from heaven what earth denies.
Far from this vain and idle show,
In humble guise I love to go,
Escaping all the toil and pain
Of those who care for naught but gain,
And in some simple, rustic cell,
In sweet contentment seek to dwell;
What more to me could Fate consign,
If all Apulia’s stores were mine?
The silver stream, the silent grove,
With myrtle bowers interwove,
The yellow corn-field’s golden sheen,
The gardens fair, the meadows green,—
These, these are pleasures all unknown
To him who holds a jewelled throne.
Happy am I, though not for me
Sweet nectar hives the laboring bee.
Nor can I claim the clustering vine,
Or Formian casks of ripening wine,
Nor e’en the verdant Gallic mead,
Where flocks in snowy whiteness feed;
Yet what can gilded wealth impart?—
It yields but flattery to the heart.
He whose desire is e’er for more,
Feels worse the pang of being poor,—
But blest is he whom God has given
With sparing hand the gifts of heaven.