Fuscus, the man whose life is pure, And clear from crime, may live secure: No Moorish darts or bow he needs, No quiver stored with venomed reeds. Whether on Afric's burning sands, Or savage Caucasus he stands, Or where, with legend-haunted tide, The waters of Hydaspes glide. For, while in Sabine glades, alone, Singing of Lalage, my own, I roamed light-hearted and unarmed, A wolf that faced me fled—alarmed. No monster so portentous roves Through gallant Daunia's broad oak-groves, Nor e'en in Juba's thirsty land, That suckles lions 'mid the sand. Place me on lifeless deserts, where No tree is fanned by summer's air, That zone of earth, which mist and cloud With sullen atmosphere enshroud; Set me in boundless realms afar, Beneath the sun's too neighbouring car, E'en there, sweet-smiling Lalage, Sweet-speaking maid, beloved shall be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN A MYRTLE SHADE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE MAYFLOWER [DECEMBER 21, 1620] by ERASTUS WOLCOTT ELLSWORTH UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES by ROBERT HERRICK SANTA FILOMENA by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE IVY; ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG FRIEND by BERNARD BARTON |