Or if, through festal days, ’tis thine
To quaff, in grassy haunts reclined,
The old Falernian wine—
Haunts where the silvery poplar-boughs
Love with the pine’s to blend on high,
And some clear fountain brightly flows
In graceful windings by.
There be the rose with beauty fraught,
So soon to fade, so brilliant now;
There be the wine, the odours brought,