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 eld