O DE XX.—“ POT-LUCK ” WITH HORACE .

AD MÆCENATEM .

Since thou, Mæcenas, nothing loth,
Under the bard's roof-tree,
Canst drink rough wine of Sabine growth,
Here stands a jar for thee!—
The Grecian delf I sealed myself,
That year the theatre broke forth,
In tribute to thy sterling worth,

When Rome's glad shout the welkin rent,
Along the Tiber ran,
And rose again, by Echo sent,
Back from Mount Vatican;—
When with delight, O Roman knight!
Etruria heard her oldest flood
Do homage to her noblest blood.

Wines of Falernian vintage, friend,
Thy princely cellar stock;
Bethink thee, should'st thou condescend
To share a poet's crock,
Its modest shape, Cajeta's grape
Hath never tinged, nor Formia's hill
Deigned with a purple flood to fill.