To Sextius

Clear skies; the sands the boat has glided o'er;
The orchards bloom; the frost with silvery sheet
No longer glints from mead the morn to greet,
And ox and neatherd leave their stabled store.

All things revive;—yet Death and his sad lore
Still press us; and the day thou'lt surely meet,
When by the dice the revel's royal seat
Will be allotted to thyself no more.

Life's short, O Sextius! Upon it seize;
Already age makes havoc of our knees.
In the bleak land of Shades no springtime is.

Then come. The woods are green, and season right
To immolate to Faun, in haunts of his,
A black-haired goat or lamb with fleece of white.