And so for worthless heirs they haste
Their coffers huge to fill;

But though their wealth increases fast,
There's something wanting still.

XXV.

TO BACCHUS.

Where, Bacchus, dost hurry me full of thy might ? To what groves or what caves am I driven? Where now shall I think on great Cæsar aright, And be heard to exalt him to heaven?

Something noble and new, yet unsung will I say: As priestesses rave in unrest,

When Hebrus and snow-begirt Thrace they survey, And Rhodope's barbarous crest,

So it joys me to wander the desert rocks through,
And lonely groves, leafless and bare.

O Lord of the Naiads and Bacchanals too,
Whose rage not e'en forests will spare,

Nought lowly nor mortal shall breathe in my strain; What peril is sweeter than mine,

O Bacchus, to follow the god in his train,

Who garlands his brow with the vine?

XXVI.

TO VENUS.

Of late I lived the squire of dames,
And deftly did my duty;

But now I've ceased those little games,
And left the ranks of beauty.

My arms and lyre make no more stir;
I hang them on the wall

Which guards the left-hand side of her

They sea-born Venus call.

Here quench, my boys, your torches bright,

Here lay aside your bows

And levers strong, which prove of might,
When bolts and bars oppose.

O! Queen of happy Cyprus land,

And Memphis never snowy, Just take I pray your lash in hand, And touch up haughty Chloe.

XXVII.

THE STORY OF EUROPA,

May omens dire the base mislead,
May they to chattering jays give heed,
Their eyes may tawny she-wolves meet,
Or fox with whelp their coming greet.

May snakes dart past them and prevent
Their course, when on a journey bent,
And scare their steeds; but I from whom
I love can ward impending doom.

Before they seek their marsh again,
The birds that tell of coming rain,
My prayers shall from the East invoke
The raven with his boding croak.

May you, my Galatea, be
Happy and mindful aye of me;
No omens ill see as you go,

Nor woodpecker nor vagrant crow.

But look to-night with what unrest
Orion hastens to the West;

Well know I Hadria's dangerous bay,
And treacherous winds that seem to play.

May wives and daughters of our foes
Feel how the rising south wind blows;

How loud the gloomy sea can roar,
When furious breakers lash the shore.

To a false bull Europa bold

Trusted her snowy charms of old;

But ah! how blanched her cheek when awed

By dire sea monsters and his fraud.

She who at morn 'mid flowers would rove, And for the Nymphs gay garlands wove, Saw as she looked around at night, Nought but the waves and starry light.

And when to Crete's fair isle she came,
Whose hundred cities make her fame;
'O Sire, O name of daughter lost,
And duty!' cried she passion tost.

'What seek I? Death's an easy fate, A virgin's fault to expiate;

Am I awake o'er sins to grieve,

Or innocent do dreams deceive

'Vain dreams come through the ivory gate, Deluding me with change of state? How sweeter far to sport again,

'Mid flowers than cross this desert main.

'O who'll appease my angry mood,
And bring the traitorous bull I rode?
His horns I'd break for evermore,
And stab the brute I loved before.

'Shameless I left my father's home,
Shameless I yet delay my doom;
Ye gods that hear me let me stray
'Mid lions fierce a naked prey.

'Before my comely cheeks shall fade,
Or dry decay my form invade ;
While young, I wish this very hour,
Tigers my beauty may devour.

""Vile girl!" I hear my father cry,

66

'Why do you hesitate to die?

The tree's at hand, your belt will make
A fitting rope your neck to break.

666

""Or if you choose another fate,

Rocks and sharp stones your choice await;
Or trust to raging storm and flood,
Unless you, born of royal blood,

"Had rather weave and ply the frame,

The slave of some barbaric dame. "'

But as she mourned stood Venus by,
And Cupid with his laughing eye,

And bow unstrung.

They smiled, and thus,

The goddess spoke: Make no more fuss; This hated bull shall let you tear

And rend his horns, as was your prayer.

'Twas Jove himself, unwitting maid,
Thy form across the wave conveyed ;
His bride art thou-bear well such fame,
For half the globe shall take thy name.'

XXVIII.

TO LYDE.

How can we better keep the day
Of Neptune? Lyde, broach, I pray,
A cask of Cæcuban at once,
And rout old Wisdom for the nonce.

You see that noon is nearly past,
And yet, as though the day stood fast.

To bring the jar you hesitate,

That bears from Bibulus its date.