Me to your springs, your dances true,Philippi bore not to the ground,Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew,Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.Grant me your presence, blithe and fainMad Bosporus shall my bark explore;My foot shall tread the sandy plainThat glows beside Assyria's shore;'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe,And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood,And quiver'd Scythians, will I goUnharm'd, and look on Tanais' flood.When Caesar's self in peaceful townThe weary veteran's home has made,You bid him lay his helmet downAnd rest in your Pierian shade.Mild thoughts you plant, and joy to seeMild thoughts take root. The nations knowHow with descending thunder heThe impious Titans hurl'd below,