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Eugene Field - Horace I, 22.
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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 roams,
    Or scales the rugged mountains,
  Or rests 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!
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