Classic Poem

Book II. Ode XIV

W ITH subtle pace the rolling year
Glides, till the living disappear;
Nor Piety can Age defer,
Nor flaming altars breath confer:

Nor, as the passing days recede,
If thrice the hecatomb should bleed,
Will Pluto shed one " iron tear , "
Or leave the destin'd victim here .

In turn, the River's pass'd by all
Whom Kings or Peasants here we call,
Streams that have Titius in their chain,
And Gerion's triple form detain.

What if the battle we should brave,
Or mountains of the roaring wave,
Or the keen messenger of death,
A Southern gale's envenom'd breath?

'Tis of mortality the doom
To see the lake of hideous gloom,
The perjur'd brides, a murd'ring band,
And the fell stone that mocks the hand.

The house, the farm, and pleasing wife,
Must all be left at closing life;
And of those woods, your single friend,
The cypress , will its lord attend.

The lavish Heir will not repine,
That left is the Caecubian wine;
With spirit, honouring his birth,
He 'll make it flow in streams of mirth .

Imprison'd by a hundred keys,
He 'll drink it off: and from the lees,
With drops upon the pavement cast,
Shame a pontifical repast.