For me stern Sparta forges no such spell,No, nor Larissa's plain of richest mould,As bright Albunea echoing from her cell.O headlong Anio! O Tiburnian groves,And orchards saturate with shifting streams!Look how the clear fresh south from heaven removesThe tempest, nor with rain perpetual teems!You too be wise, my Plancus: life's worst cloudWill melt in air, by mellow wine allay'd,Dwell you in camps, with glittering banners proud,Or 'neath your Tibur's canopy of shade.When Teucer fled before his father's frownFrom Salamis, they say his temples deepHe dipp'd in wine, then wreath'd with poplar crown,And bade his comrades lay their grief to sleep:“Where Fortune bears us, than my sire more kind,There let us go, my own, my gallant crew.'Tis Teucer leads, 'tis Teucer breathes the wind;No more despair; Apollo's word is true.Another Salamis in kindlier air