Classic Poem

The man whose life is pure and innocent
With Moorish javelins need not go equipped,
Nor carry how nor quiver's complement
Of arrows poison-tipped,

Be he through Syrtes bay of boiling tides
Or savage Caucasus on journey bound,
Or, Fuscus, where Hydaspes gently glides
In story far renowned.

For lately while abroad in Sabine wood
My Lalage I sang, a truant gay,
A wolf that met me, though unarmed I stood,
Turned back and fled away.

Monster so huge not all the Daunian land,
Mother of soldiers, breeds in forest lairs
Amid her oaks, nor Juba's realm of sand,
Home of the lion, bears.

Set me on torpid plains where to new life
Quickens no tree refreshed by summer gale,
Within the zone where mist and clouds are rife,
And bitter frosts prevail,

Or set me where a clime for man unmeet
Driving his car too nigh the sun has made,
My Lalage's sweet talk and laughter sweet
Ne'er from my heart will fade.