Poscimur
FROM HORACE
HUSH, for they call! If in the shade,My lute, we twain have idly strayed,And song for many a season made,Once more reply;Once more we’ll play as we have played,My lute and I!
Roman the song: the strain you know,The Lesbian wrought it long ago.Now singing as he charged the foe,Now in the bay,Where safe in the shore-water’s flowHis galleys lay.
So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,And Venus and her boy divine,And Lycus of the dusky eyne,The dusky hair;So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine,Of all things fair;
Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell,Thou lute, to Jove desirable,When soft thine accents sigh and swellAt festival—Delight more dear than words can tell,Attend my call!