LIB . II. Ode III.— A HOMILY ON DEATH

Thee, whether Pain assail
Or Pleasure pamper,
Dellius—whiche'er prevail—
Keep thou thy temper;
Unwed to boisterous joys, that ne'er
Can save thee from the sepulchre;

Death smites the slave to spleen,
Whose soul repineth,
And him who on the green,
Calm sage, reclineth,
Keeping—from grief's intrusion far—
Blithe holiday with festal jar.

Where giant fir, sunproof,
With poplar blendeth,
And high o'er head a roof
Of boughs extendeth;
While onward runs the crooked rill,
Brisk fugitive, with murmur shrill.

Bring wine, here, on the grass!
Bring perfumes hither!
Bring roses—which, alas!
Too quickly wither—
Ere of our days the spring-tide ebb,
While the dark sisters weave our web.

Soon—should the fatal shear
Cut life's frail fibre—
Broad lands, sweet Villa near
The yellow Tiber,
With all thy chattels rich and rare,
Must travel to a thankless heir.

Be thou the nobly born,
Spoil'd child of Fortune—
Be thou the wretch forlorn,
Whom wants importune—
By sufferance thou art here at most,
Till death shall claim his holocaust.

All to the same dark bourne
Plod on together—
Lots from the same dread urn
Leap forth—and, whether
Our's be the first or last, Hell's wave
Yawns for the exiles of the grave.