Classic Poem

Septimius, who wou'd go with me,
To Gades, or unconquer'd Spain,
Or Syrtes, where the Moorish sea
Bids endless tempests reign?
Be Tibur, by a Grecian plann'd,
A seat for Horace in his years,
Weary alike of sea and land,
And martial hopes and fears.
From whence if driv'n by cruel fate,
May I Galesus see in peace,
Where great Phalanthus rul'd in state,
And watch'd his cover'd fleece.
With me that little angle takes
Whose honey's of Hymettian zest,
And with the oil Venafrum makes
Their olives stand the test.
Where Jove gives winter warmth — and length
To spring, — and Aulon's heights arise,
Rich with those wines, whose luscious strength
With true Falernian vies.
These scenes to us their site commend —
Those tow'rs so pleasant to the view:
There the live ashes of thy friend,
With tears thou shalt bedew.