Odes 1.24 (Martin): Quis Desiderio

Why should we stem tte tears that needs must flow,
Why blush, that they should freely flow and long?
To think of that dear head in death laid low?
Do thou inspire my melancholy song,
Melpomene, in whom the Muses' sire
Join'd with a liquid voice the mastery of the lyre!

And hath the sleep, that knows no waking morn.
Closed o'er Quinctilius, our Quinctilius dear?
Where shall be found the man of woman born
That in desert might be esteem'd his peer, —
So simply meek, and yet so sternly just,
Of faith so pure, and all so absolute of trust?

He sank into his rest, bewept of many,
And but the good and noble wept for him,
But dearer cause thou, Virgil, hadst than any,
With friendship's tears thy friendless eyes to dim!
Alas, alas! Not to such woful end
Didst thou unto the gods thy pray'rs unceasing send!

What though thou modulate the tuneful shell
With defter skill than Orpheus of old Thrace,
When deftliest he played, and with its spell
Moved all the listening forest from its place,
Yet never, never can thy art avail
To bring life's glowing tide back to the phantom pale,

Whom with his black inexorable wand
Hermes, austere and pitiless as fate,
Hath forced to join the dark and spectral band
In their sad journey to the Stygian gate.
'Tis hard, great heav'ns, how hard! But to endure
Alleviates the pang we may nor crush nor cure!