See, how it stands, one pile of snow,Soracte! 'neath the pressure yieldIts groaning woods; the torrents' flowWith clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,That mellower vintage, four-year-old,From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.The future trust with Jove; when heHas still'd the warring tempests' roarOn the vex'd deep, the cypress-treeAnd aged ash are rock'd no more.O, ask not what the morn will bring,But count as gain each day that chanceMay give you; sport in life's young spring,Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,While years are green, while sullen eldIs distant. Now the walk, the game,The whisper'd talk at sunset held,Each in its hour, prefer their claim.