Volume 3 — TO PHYLLIS. INVITING HER TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTH-DAY OF MÆCENAS. BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE ELEVENTH.

Sweet Phyllis, leave thy quiet home, For lo! the ides of April come! Then hasten to my bower; A cask of rich Albanian wine, In nine years mellowness, is mine, To glad the festal hour. My garden-herbs, in fragrance warm, Our various chaplets wait to form; My tender ivies grow, That, twining in thy amber hair, Add jocund spirit to thine air, And whiteness to thy brow. My walls with silver vessels shine; Chaste vervin decks the modest shrine, That longs with crimson stains To see its foliage sprinkled o’er, When the devoted lamb shall pour The treasure of his veins. The household girls, and menial boy, From room to room assiduous fly, And busy hands extend; Our numerous fires are quivering bright, And, rolling from their pointed height, The dusky wreaths ascend.[128] Convivial rites, in mystic state, Thou, lovely nymph, shalt celebrate, And give the day to mirth That this love-chosen month divides;[129] Since honour’d rose its blooming ides By dear Mæcenas’ birth. O! not to me my natal star So sacred seems;—then, Nymph, prepare To grace its smiling dawn! A wealthier maid, in pleasing chains, Illustrious Telephus detains,[130] From humble Thee withdrawn. When pride would daring hopes create, Of Phaeton recall the fate, Consumed in his career! Let rash Bellerophon, who tried The fiery Pegasus to guide, Awake thy prudent fear! Thus warn’d, thy better interest know, And cease those charming eyes to throw On youths of high degree! Come then, of all my loves the last, For, every other passion past, I only burn for thee! Come, and with tuneful voice rehearse The measures of thy Poet’s verse And charm the list’ning throng! Believe me, fairest, all our cares Will soften at the melting airs That deck the lyric song.