Classic Poem

Why, on the first of March, so clean,
Free from the matrimonial god,
Why flow'rs and frankincense are seen,
And what these heaps of fewel mean
Upon the living sod,
Friend, is from your discernment hid,
Tho' Greek and Latin are your own.
Know then I vow'd a feast and kid
To him, who did my death forbid,
When down the tree was blown.
This day, the chief of all by far,
A special festival denotes,
And shall remove from out the jar
The cork smok'd down with pitch and tar,
When Tullus had the votes.
Take, for the safety of thy friend,
An hundred bumpers at the least;
On high the wakeful lamps suspend,
Let wrath and clamour have an end,
Nor interrupt our feasts.
Cease each political conceit,
Nor Rome let all your cares engage;
The Dacian Cotison is beat,
The hostile Medes, in self-defeat,
Domestic warfare wage:
The Spanish foe now pays the tax,
Though by slow steps this wreath was won;
The Scythian troops their bows relax,
And, fearful of the Roman ax,
The field of battle shun.
The state, not as a man in pow'r,
But as a private friend, repute;
Leave things that are severe and sour
For pleasures of the present hour,
Wine, converse, harp, and lute.