My votive picture, in his temple, tells
I’ve hung my garments, reeking from the tide,
Before the God, whose power the ocean quells.
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.