e thy spirit warms,
And stealing age thy pride alarms,
For fleeting graces, and for waning powers;

When all the shining locks, that now
Adown those ivory shoulders bound,
With deaden'd colour shade thy brow,
And fall as from th' autumnal bough
Leaves, that rude winds have scatter'd on the ground;

And on that cheek the tints, that shame
May's orient light and Summer's rose,
Dim as yon taper's sullen flame,
Shall, in a dusky red, proclaim
That not one hue in wonted lustre glows;

When wrinkles o'er LIGURIA's face
Their daily strengthening furrows lead;
When faithful mirrors cease to place
In her charm'd sight each blooming grace,
And will no more her heart's proud triumph feed;

Then the chang'd Maid, with secret shame,
Shall thus the past, and present chide;
O! why, amid the loud acclaim,
That gave my rising charms to Fame,
Swell'd this coy bosom with disdainful pride?

Or why, since now the wish to yield
Steals pensive thro' each melting vein,
The ice dissolv'd, that scorn congeal'd,
And every tender thought reveal'd,
Why, vanish'd BEAUTY, com'st not _thou_ again?

TO PHYLLIS.

INVITING HER TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF MAECENAS.

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 vervain 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[1].

Convivial rites, in mystic state,
Thou, lovely Nymph, shalt celebrate,
And give the day to mirth
That this [2]Love-chosen month divides;
Since honor'd rose its blooming ides
By dear Maecenas' birth.

O! not to _me_ my natal star
So sacred seems;--then, Nymph, prepare
To grace its smilin