TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS

By Roswell Martin Field

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 roam,

Or scale the rugged mountains,

Or rest 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!