Horace I, 22.
By Eugene Field
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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"Fuscus, whoso to good inclines--..."
This evocative piece by Eugene Field, titled "Horace I, 22.", represents a masterful exploration of classic. The lines capture a profound emotional resonance... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...