Which god has ever yet restored
All those with whom I came to share
My mud-bound march and vulgar mores,
When Brutus led us in despair,
And freedom's specter was our lord?
All those with whom my front line tears
In bottomless tent cups I drowned,
And curls tight-wrapped in ivy's sheers
With Syrian myrrh in embalmed crown?
At war's worst hour will you abide
That I, poor Quiris fearful, fled
My shield cast down beside my pride,
With vows and prayers in my stead?
How fear reigned whole and how I flew!
But Hermes in a sudden breath
My world made safe, whence he withdrew
And saved me from most certain death.
But you, O you, first love of mine,
Again in battle did you rage,
And then to Rome fate's force would bind
Your steps to my warm, simple cage.
Sit now beside my hallowed hearth
And let us pour. Do not regret
My wines or perfumes, sweet or tart,
The laurels sit. Lad, pour us wet!
Here pale restraint will find no place:
Like Scythians wild I wish to drink
And with a friend so celebrate,
That senses bleed and do not think.