To Lyce. - Translations From Horace.

OD. iv. 13.     Lyce, the gods have listened to my prayer;     The gods have listened, Lyce. Thou art grey,      And still would'st thou seem fair;      Still unshamed drink, and play,     And, wine-flushed, woo slow-answering Love with weak     Shrill pipings. With young Chia He doth dwell,      Queen of the harp; her cheek      Is his sweet citadel:-     He marked the withered oak, and on he flew     Intolerant; shrank from Lyce grim and wrinkled,      Whose teeth are ghastly-blue,      Whose temples snow-besprinkled:-     Not purple, not the brightest gem that glows,     Brings back to her the years which, fleeting fast,      Time hath once shut in those      Dark annals of the Past.     Oh, where is all thy loveliness? soft hue     And motions soft? Oh, what of Her doth rest,      Her, who breathed love, who drew      My heart out of my breast?     Fair, and far-famed, and subtly sweet, thy face     Ranked next to Cinara's. But to Cinara fate      Gave but a few years' grace;      And lets live, all too late,     Lyce, the rival of the beldam crow:     That fiery youth may see with scornful brow      The torch that long ago      Beamed bright, a cinder now.