Explore "Horace II, 7" by Eugene Field on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Pompey, what fortune gives you back / To the friends and the gods who love you -- / Once more you stand in your native land, / With your native sky above you! / Ah, side by side, in years agone, / We've faced tempestuous weather, / And often quaffed / The genial draft / From an amphora together!
When honor at Phillippi fell / A pray to brutal passion, / I regret to say that my feet ran away / In swift Iambic fashion; / You were no poet-soldier born, / You staid, nor did you wince then -- / Mercury came / To my help, which same / Has frequently saved me since then.
But now you're back, let's celebrate / In the good old way and classic -- / Come, let us lard our skins with nard / And bedew our souls with Massic! / With fillets of green parsley leaves / Our foreheads shall be done up, / And with song shall we / Protract our spree / Until the morrow's sun-up.