Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure
Needeth nor javelin, nor bow of Moor
Nor arrows tipped with venom deadly-sure,
Loading his quiver.
Whether o'er Afric's burning sand he rides,
Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain-sides,
Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides,
That storied river.
Place me where no life-laden summer breeze
Freshens the meads, or murmurs 'mongst the trees;
Where clouds oppress, and withering tempests' breeze
From shore to shore.
Place me beneath the sunbeams' fiercest glare,
On arid sands, no dwelling anywhere,
Still Lalage's sweet smile, sweet voice _e'en there_
I will adore.
--Tr. William Greenwood