S_

[**Music]

Lauriger Horatius,
Quam dixisti verum!
Fugit Euro citius
Tempus edax rerum.

_Chorus_

Ubi sunt, O pocula,
Dulciora melle,
Rixae, pax, et oscula
Rubentis puellae?

Crescit uva molliter,
Et puella crescit,
Sed poeta turpiter
Sitiens canescit.

Quid iuvat aeternitas
Nominis, amare
Nisi terrae filias
Licet, et potare?

Translation

Horace, crowned with laurels bright,
Truly thou hast spoken;
Time outspeeds the swift winds' flight,
Earthly power is broken.

_Chorus_

Give me cups that foaming rise,
Cups with fragrance laden,
Pouting lips and smiling eyes,
Of a blushing maiden.

Blooming grows the budding vine,
And the maid grows blooming;
But the poet quaffs not wine,
Age is surely dooming.

Who would grasp at empty fame?
'Tis a fleeting vision;
But for love and wine we claim,
Sweetness all Elysian.

--Tr. J. A. Pearce, Jr.

AMERICA

This singable Latin translation of America was made by Professor
George D. Kellogg of Union College and appeared in _The Classical
Weekly_.

Te cano, Patria,
candida, libera;
te referet
portus et exulum
et tumulus senum;
libera montium
vox resonet.

Te cano, Patria,
semper et atria
ingenuum;
laudo virentia
culmina, flumina;
sentio gaudia
caelicolum.

Sit modulatio!
libera natio
dulce canat!
labra vigentia,
ora faventia,
saxa silentia
vox repleat!

Tutor es unicus,
unus avum deus!
Laudo libens.
Patria luceat,
libera fulgeat,
vis tua muniat,
Omnipotens!

INTEGER VITAE.

[**Music]

Horace. Book I, Ode xxii

Integer vitae, scelerisque purus
Non eget Mauris jaculis nec arcu,
Nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra.

Sive per Syrtes, iter aestuosas,
Sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum, vel quae loca fabulosus
Lambit Hydaspes.

Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor aestiva recreatur aura;
Quod latus mundi nebulae malusque
Iuppiter urget;

Pone sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis, in terra domibus negata:
Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.

Translation

Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure
Needeth nor javelin, nor bow of Moor
Nor arrows tipped with venom deadly-sure,
Loading his quiver.

Whether o'er Afric's burning sand he rides,
Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain-sides,
Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides,
That storied river.

Place me where no life-laden summer breeze
Freshens