Set him to the unlawful dice,Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!While his sire, mature in vice,A friend, a partner, or a guest betrays,Hurrying, for an heir so base,To gather riches. Money, root of ill,Doubt it not, still grows apace:Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me.FiIl'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,Thus in wildering race I see?What cave shall hearken to my melodies,Tuned to tell of Caesar's praiseAnd throne him high the heavenly ranks among?Sweet and strange shall be my lays,A tale till now by poet voice unsung.As the Evian on the height,Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,