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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

To Thaliarchus

By Horace (65–8 B.C.)

Translation of Sir Sir Stephen E. de Vere

A SPECTRAL form Soracte stands, snow-crowned,

His shrouded pines beneath their burden bending;

Not now, his rifts descending,

Leap the wild streams, in icy fetters bound.

Heap high the logs! Pour forth with lavish hand,

O Thaliarchus, draughts of long-stored wine,

Blood of the Sabine vine!

To-day be ours: the rest the gods command.

While storms lie quelled at their rebuke, no more

Shall the old ash her shattered foliage shed,

The cypress bow her head,

The bursting billow whiten on the shore.

Scan not the future: count as gain each day

That Fortune gives thee; and despise not, boy,

Or love, or dance, or joy

Of martial games, ere yet thy locks be gray.

Thine be the twilight vow from faltering tongue;

The joyous laugh that self-betraying guides

To where the maiden hides;

The ring from finger half resisting wrung.