Classic Poem

Now must we say, if thou be wise
In summer's heat to Ardea turn,
Or seek the plain where Castrum lies
And the hot stars of Leo burn.

He that is laid in yonder grave
Saith, ‘Tarry not but get thee gone.’
Here sought he Arno's healing wave,
But found the stream of Acheron?

Yet what shall stay the march of death?
When he is come and calleth thee,
Sardinia's fever-laden breath
Shall taint the air of Tivoli.