ate: Chloe and Lyde run
away from him like fawns (I, xxiii): that is because they are young; he
can wait till they are older; they will come to him then of themselves:
"they always come," says Disraeli in "Henrietta Temple." He has
quarrelled with an old flame (I, xvi), whom he had affronted by some
libellous verses. He entreats her pardon; was young and angry when he
wrote; will burn the offending lines, or fling them into the sea:

Come, let me change my sour for sweet,
And smile complacent as before;
Hear me my palinode repeat,
And give me back your heart once more.

He professes bitter jealousy of a handsome stripling whose beauty Lydia
praises (I, xiii). She is wasting her admiration; she will find him
unfaithful; Horace knows him well:

Oh, trebly blest, and blest for ever,
Are they, whom true affection binds,
In whom no doubts nor janglings sever
The union of their constant minds;
But life in blended current flows,
Serene and sunny to the close.

If anyone now reads "Lalla Rookh," he will recall an exquisite rendering
of these lines from the lips of veiled Nourmahal:

There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth
Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;
And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this!

But, perhaps, if a jury of scholars could be polled as to the most
enchanting amongst all Horace's lovesongs, the highest vote would be
cast in favour of the famous "Reconciliation" of the roving poet with
this or with some other Lydia (III, ix). The pair of former lovers,
mutually faithless, exchange defiant experience of their several
infidelities; then, the old affection reviving through the contact of
their altercation, agree to discard their intervening paramours, and
return to their first allegiance.

_He._

Whilst I was dear and thou wert kind,
And I, and I alone, might lie
Upon thy snowy breast reclined,
Not Persia's king so blest as I.

_She._

Whilst I to thee was all in all,
Nor Chloe might with Lydia vie,
Renowned in ode or madrigal,
Not Roman Ilia famed as I.

_He._

I now am Thracian Chloe's slave,
With hand and voice that charms the air,
For whom even death itse