A ROMAN WINTER-PIECE

See, Thaliarch mine, how, white with snow,

Soracte mocks the sullen sky;

How, groaning loud, the woods are bowed,

And chained with frost the rivers lie.

Pile, pile the logs upon the hearth;

We'll melt away the envious cold:

And, better yet, sweet friend, we'll wet

Our whistles with some four-year-old.

Commit all else unto the gods,

Who, when it pleaseth them, shall bring

To fretful deeps and wooded steeps

The mild, persuasive grace of Spring.

Let not To-morrow, but To-day,

Your ever active thoughts engage;

Frisk, dance, and sing, and have your fling,

Unharmed, unawed of crabbed Age.

Let's steal content from Winter's wrath,

And glory in the artful theft,

That years from now folks shall allow

‘ T was cold indeed when we got left.

So where the whisperings and the mirth

Of girls invite a sportive chap,

Let's fare awhile,— aha, you smile;

You guess my meaning,— verbum sap.