Classic Poem

One sound and pure of wicked arts
Leaves to the blacks their spear and bow,
Nor need he deadly tinctur'd darts
Within his quiver stow.
Whether the suns of southern flame,
Or barb'rous Caucasus he braves,
Or goes, where of romantic fame,
Vast tracts Hydaspes laves.
For careless, out of bounds to rove,
(A song on Lalage my plan)
Me swordless in the Sabine grove
A wolf beheld, and ran.
A monster, such as ne'er was fed
In warlike Daunia's beechen plain,
Nor e'er that nurse of lions bred,
E'en Juba's dry domain.
Me in those lifeless regions place,
Where trees receive no fost'ring gale,
Whence Jove has turn'd away his face,
And clouds obscure prevail;
Or place me, where the sun too near,
No huts can stand the heat above,
Sweet-smiling, sweetly-prattling dear,
My Lalage I'll love.