Horace To His Lute.

A poem by Eugene Field

If ever in the sylvan shade
A song immortal we have made,
Come now, O lute, I pri' thee come--
Inspire a song of Latium.

A Lesbian first thy glories proved--
In arms and in repose he loved
To sweep thy dulcet strings and raise
His voice in Love's and Liber's praise;
The Muses, too, and him who clings
To Mother Venus' apron-strings,
And Lycus beautiful, he sung
In those old days when you were young.

O shell, that art the ornament
Of Phoebus, bringing sweet content
To Jove, and soothing troubles all--
Come and requite me, when I call!