University of Virginia Library

Imitation of Horace.

Book IV. Ode VII.

The Winter's gone, Grass cloaths the Meads once more,
And the fresh Trees with Leaves are cover'd o'er;
The glad Earth owns her Change in flow'ry Pride,
And by their Banks the less'ning Rivers glide.
Join'd with the Nymphs the Sister Graces dare
Lead naked up the Dance in vernal Air.
The Year, the Hours that steal the passing Day,
Tell us that all is subject to Decay.
The Hoar Frost sinks beneath warm Zephyr's Wing,
And Summer (soon to perish) drives off Spring:
And loaded Autumn scarce its Fruits has shed,
But sullen Winter once more rears its Head.
Yet the Swift Moons their bright Decays repair,
But we, when Clotho cuts the destin'd Hair,
At once we fall, with all the mighty dead
Mere Dust become and unapparent Shade.
Who knows if they, who bear almighty sway,
Will add a Morrow to the present Day?
All that to cheat your best lov'd self you spend,
Shall 'scape your greedy Heirs rapacious Hand,
Once dead, not all the Blood Descent can give,
Not all the Fire which Breasts inspir'd receive,
Not Virtue's self again can make you live.
Phœbus, who Milton fir'd with Heav'nly Flame,
Can ne'er the Poet from the Grave reclaim;
Nor the whole Fount that Helicon supplies,
Wash Lethe's deadly Stains from Shakespear's Eyes.