Classic Poem

What day, my blest knight, in your lofty saloon,
This Caecuban hoarded for thee;
(At Caesar's great conquest my spirits in tune)
Shall Jove for our banquet decree?
While Doric and Phrygian concertos are play'd,
Upon the shrill pipes and the lyre;
As lately when Neptune's sham-son was dismay'd,
And fled with his ships all a-fire.
But first he had threaten'd all Rome to subdue,
Till to the same yoke they shou'd bend
He took from the slaves to their masters untrue,
Professing himself for their friend.
Yet still cou'd a Roman, whom frail beauty charms,
(The fact may our children gainsay)
Most slavishly bear palisadoes and arms,
And e'en haggard eunuchs obey!
Amidst all the standards (O shame to be told)
That in gallant order arose,
The sun a rich canopy blush'd to behold,
With squabs for luxurious repose.
The Gaul upon this, with two thousand fine horse,
For Caesar with shoutings decreed;
And their navy's left wing, struck with dread and remorse,
To port made the best of their speed.
O triumph! you loiter the heifer to bring,
You loiter to bring the gilt car;
O triumph! you brought us Jugurtha the king,
But Caesar's inferior by far.
Nor, from that long African war, did you crown
A chief of more excellent name;
Tho' Scipio has got him eternal renown,
By Carthage the tomb of his fame.
Our enemies, vanquish'd by land and by sea,
Have strip'd their red coats from their back;
And with the most dismal event to agree,
Have cloath'd all their soldiers in black.
And Antony now is a-making for Crete,
(An hundred fair cities she boasts)
Or is on the Syrtes wind-bound with his fleet,
Or on some strange region he coasts.
Bring, boy, larger glasses, with Chian replete,
Or fill'd with right Lesbian wine;
Or Caecuban, which may this sickness defeat,
Give always good measure for mine!
For anxious concern for great Caesar's affairs,
Which each honest citizen racks;
'Tis better with wine (as your Horace declares)
With the very best wine to relax.