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How shall I now your wonted aid implore;
The poet's numbers or the lover's care?
Yet here, for ever here, your bard must dwell,
Here must he live :-But when he yields his breath,
O let him not be exiled even in death!
Lest mixed with Scythian shades, a Roman ghost
All that of Ovid then remains shall bear;
Then wilt thou weep to see me so return,
And with fond passion clasp my silent urn.
Press the pale marble with thy lips, and give One precious tear, and bid my memory live: The silent dust shall glow at thy command, And the warm ashes feel thy pious hand.
TO A LADY.
WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS.
tibi lilia plenis Ecce ferunt nymphæ calathis.
Flowers to the fair: To you these flowers I bring,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
ODE TO SPRING.
Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned ;
From the green islands of eternal youth,-
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thine own tender calm.