Classic Poem

Now , now, ye Muses, sport; for 'tis the time
Our victor god returns from northern clime.
Thou first, December, bade the folk rejoice;
Soon we may cry — " He comes" — with lifted voice.
Happy thy lot! We could not let thee go
If January's joys thou didst bestow.
Soon shall wreathed soldiers fling their jests afar,
Walking attendant on thy laurelled car;
For Triumph loves the merry song and joke,
And even Caesar then will banter brook.