Soracte stands, and, bending low,
Yon branches droop beneath their burden,
And streams o'erfrozen have ceased their flow.
Away with cold! the hearth pile high
With blazing logs; the goblet ply
With cheering Sabine, Thaliarchus;
Draw from the cask of long years gone by.
All else the gods entrust to keep,
Whose nod can lull the winds to sleep,
Vexing the ash and cypress agèd,