Soracte. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 9.     One dazzling mass of solid snow      Soracte stands; the bent woods fret      Beneath their load; and, sharpest-set     With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.     Pile on great faggots and break up      The ice: let influence more benign      Enter with four-years-treasured wine,     Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup:     Leave to the Gods all else. When they      Have once bid rest the winds that war      Over the passionate seas, no more     Grey ash and cypress rock and sway.     Ask not what future suns shall bring,      Count to-day gain, whate'er it chance      To be: nor, young man, scorn the dance,     Nor deem sweet Love an idle thing,     Ere Time thy April youth hath changed      To sourness. Park and public walk      Attract thee now, and whispered talk     At twilight meetings pre-arranged;     Hear now the pretty laugh that tells      In what dim corner lurks thy love;      And snatch a bracelet or a glove     From wrist or hand that scarce rebels.