To Virgil. - Translations From Horace.
OD. i. 24. Unshamed, unchecked, for one so dear We sorrow. Lead the mournful choir, Melpomene, to whom thy sire Gave harp, and song-notes liquid-clear! Sleeps He the sleep that knows no morn? Oh Honour, oh twin-born with Right, Pure Faith, and Truth that loves the light, When shall again his like be born? Many a kind heart for Him makes moan; Thine, Virgil, first. But ah! in vain Thy love bids heaven restore again That which it took not as a loan: Were sweeter lute than Orpheus given To thee, did trees thy voice obey; The blood revisits not the clay Which He, with lifted wand, hath driven Into his dark assemblage, who Unlocks not fate to mortal's prayer. Hard lot! Yet light their griefs who BEAR The ills which they may not undo.
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"OD. i. 24...."
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