Explore "Horace I, 22" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Fuscus, whoso to good inclines -- / And is a faultless liver -- / Nor moorish spear nor bow need fear, / Nor poison-arrowed quiver.
Ay, though through desert wastes he roams, / Or scales the rugged mountains, / Or rests beside the murmuring tide / Of weird Hydaspan fountains!
Lo, on a time, I gayly paced / The Sabine confines shady, / And sung in glee of Lalage, / My own and dearest lady.
And, as I sung, a monster wolf / Slunk through the thicket from me -- - / But for that song, as I strolled along / He would have overcome me!
Set me amid those poison mists / Which no fair gale dispelleth, / Or in the plains where silence reigns / And no thing human dwelleth;
Still shall I love my Lalage -- / Still sing her tender graces; / And, while I sing my theme shall bring / Heaven to those desert places!