Fuscus, whoso to good inclines-- <br />And is a faultless liver-- <br />Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, <br />Nor poison-arrowed quiver. <br /> <br />Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, <br />Or scales the rugged mountains, <br />Or rests beside the murmuring tide <br />Of weird Hydaspan fountains! <br /> <br />Lo, on a time, I gayly paced <br />The Sabine confines shady, <br />And sung in glee of Lalage, <br />My own and dearest lady. <br /> <br />And, as I sung, a monster wolf <br />Slunk through the thicket from me--- <br />But for that song, as I strolled along <br />He would have overcome me! <br /> <br />Set me amid those poison mists <br />Which no fair gale dispelleth, <br />Or in the plains where silence reigns <br />And no thing human dwelleth; <br /> <br />Still shall I love my Lalage-- <br />Still sing her tender graces; <br />And, while I sing my theme shall bring <br />Heaven to those desert places!<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/horace-i-22/
