And Lydia Die,--aha, methinks
You'll not forget the saucy minx!

But, oh, the echoes of those songs
That soothed our cares and lulled our hearts!
Not to that age nor this belongs
The glory of what heaven-born arts
Speak with the old distinctive charm
From yonder humble Sabine farm!

The day is done. Now off to bed,
Lest by some rural ruse surprised,
And by those artful girls misled,
You two be sadly compromised.
_You_ go; perhaps _I_'d better stay
To shoo the giddy things away!

But sometime we shall meet again
Beside Digentia, cool and clear,--
You and we twain, old friend; and then
We'll have our fill of pagan cheer.
Then, could old Horace join us three,
How proud and happy he would be!

Or if we part to meet no more
This side the misty Stygian Sea,
Be sure of this: on yonder shore
Sweet cheer awaiteth such as we;
A Sabine pagan's heaven, O friend,--
The fellowship that knows no end!