Classic Poem

The long truce ended, would'st thou war,
Venus, renew? Peace, grant me peace!
I am not what I was of yore
In good queen Cinara's reign. O cease
To bend, sweet Cupid's mother stern,
At fifty me to thy soft sway
Grown hardened. To the youths return,
Who warmly for thy coming pray.
To Paulus' home more timely 'twere,
On bright swans' pinions borne, to lead
Thy revels if to fire thou care
A heart most fit to serve thy need.
High born, well favoured, pleader bold
For trembling prisoners at the bar,
Youth of accomplishments untold,
Thy standards he will carry far.
And when he smiles his suit to see
O'er lavish rival's gifts prevail,
A statue will he raise to thee
'Neath citron roof in Alba's vale.
There shall thy nostrils clouds inspire
Of incense; on thine ear shall fall
Sweet strains commingled of the lyre
And Cybele's flute, and pipe withal.
Boys and young maidens there shall sound
Thy praise twice daily, while their feet,
White twinkling, rhythmic, tread the ground
In Salian dance of triple beat.
I long no more for charmer kind,
Or mutual love's fond hopes, nor now
In drinking bouts can pleasure find,
Or flowers fresh-plucked to wreathe my brow.
But why, O Ligurinus, why
Trickle stray teardrops down my cheek?
Why lamely halts my tongue when I
With wonted eloquence would speak?
At night for ever in my dreams
You haunt me: now I hold you tight,
Now chase through Campus grass, and streams
That speed, hard-hearted one, your flight.