“March, Ages, without break!”
Time presses on!
You, of race Divine, Jove’s adopted Son,
High honours, great tasks await;
Swerve not at the call of Fate!
The arched world bows; the sea’s long currents raise
Glad crests; Heaven’s blue depths chant hymns of praise
For the good days coming. With one consent
The Universe prepares for merriment.
Winter was it? Now, ’tis Spring;