See, how it stands (VIDES UT ALTA)

     See, how it stands, one pile of snow,
       Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield
     Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow
       With 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 He
       Has still'd the warring tempests' roar
     On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree
       And aged ash are rock'd no more.
     O, ask not what the morn will bring,
       But count as gain each day that chance
     May give you; sport in life's young spring,
       Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,
     While years are green, while sullen eld
       Is distant. Now the walk, the game,
     The whisper'd talk at sunset held,
       Each in its hour, prefer their claim.
     Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm
       The hiding-place of beauty tells,
     The token, ravish'd from the arm
       Or finger, that but ill rebels.

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