Yon highway past, the Alban citadel,
At great Messala's mandate made,
In fitted stones and firm-set gravel laid,
Thy monument forever more to stand!
The mountain-villager thy fame will tell,
When through the darkness wending late from Rome,
He foots it smoothly home.

O Genius of this natal day,
May many a year thy gift declare!
Now bright and fair thy pinions soar away,--
Return, thou bright and fair!




ELEGY THE NINTH

TO PHOLOE AND MARATHUS


The language of a lover's eyes I cannot choose but see;
The oracles in tender sighs were never dark to me.

No art of augury I need, nor heart of victims slain,
Nor birds of omen singing forth the future's bliss or bane.

Venus herself did round my arm th' enchanted wimple throw,
And taught me--Ah! not unchastised!--what wizardry I know.