O young Achilles, whom a mother's care
Hath dipp'd as in a sacred Stygian wave;
Whole, but yet not secure, thou hence dost fare,
For there are wounds from which it will not save.
A thousand ways of entrance open lie
For evil; not alone against thy heel
The prince of darkness in his rage lets-fly
The thousand arrows thou mayst dread to feel.
But if remember'd health may still have given
True health, and to have been is still to be,
Thou seem'st as one whose bark, by storms unriven,
Still rides, as yet unconquer'd, on the sea;
And, while on shore thy friends thou visitest,
And the sad company of them that sin,
With furled sails upon the waves at rest,
Thy bark floats idly till thou art within.
But if for this thou criest overbold,
'Bring wine! enjoy the moment as it goes;
Leave to old age its cares; dismiss the cold,
While in new realms for ever reigns the rose!'
Ah, know that not in revels such as these
Learn we to struggle with the spiteful gale;
Nor thus can hope to rescue from rough seas
The broken cable and the driven sail.
These waves must in another wave be wash'd,
This shipwreck in another shipwreck drown'd;
The eye in such ill storms so vilely dashed,
A happier wreck in its own tears be found. CL.
Latin Poems.