RECIT. BENEATH a verdant laurel's ample shade, His lyre to mournful numbers strung. Horace, immortal bard, supinely laid, To Venus thus addressed the song: Ten thousand little loves around, Listening, dwelt on every sound. ARIETTE. Potent Venus, bid thy son Sound no more his dire alarms. Youth on silent wings is flown; Graver years come rolling on. Spare my age, unfit for arms; Safe and humble let me rest, From all amorous care released. Potent Venus, bid thy son Sound no more his dire alarms. RECIT. Yet, Venus, who do I each morn prepare The fragrant wreath for Cloe's hair; Why do I all day lament and sigh, Unless the beauteous maid be nigh; And why all night pursue her in my dreams, Through flowery meads and crystal streams! RECIT. Thus sung the bard; and thus the goddess spoke: Submissive bow to Love's imperious yoke. Every state, and every age Shall own my rule, and fear my rage; Compelled by me, thy Muse shall prove, That all the world was born to love. ARIET. Bid thy destined lyre discover Soft desire and gentle pain; Often praise, and always love her: Through her ear, her heart obtain. Verse shall please, and sighs shall move her, Cupid does with Phoebus reign. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUSE by ELIZABETH JANE COATSWORTH THE OLD MAN AND JIM by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY EIGHTEEN SIXTY-ONE by WALT WHITMAN IF THE POETS HAD FEARED THE ADVERTISERS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ON SAMUEL ROGERS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON A MEDIC GATHERS MUSHROOMS FOR HIS LADY by GRACE STONE COATES |