The idea that Licinia was the Mistress of Horace, has surely little foundation:--for it were strange indeed if he could take pleasure in describing amorous familiarities between Mæcenas, and the Person with whom _himself_ was in love. One of these Critics alledges, as the reason why this Lady could _not_ be the destined Bride of _Mæcenas_, that it would have been as indiscreet in _him_ to have admitted Horace to be a witness of his passion for Licinia-Terentia, as it would have been impertinent in the _Poet_, to have invaded the privacies of his Patron. It is not necessary, from this Ode, to conclude that Horace had _witnessed_ the tender scene he describes. He might, without any hazard of imputed impertinence, venture to paint, from his imagination, the innocently playful endearments of betrothed Lovers. The picture was much more likely to _flatter_ than to _disgust_ the gay, and gallant Mæcenas.
2: The Roman Ladies, according to ancient custom, danced with entwined arms, around the Altar of Diana, on the day of her Festival.
Alas! my Posthumus, the Years Unpausing glide away; Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers, Their fleeting pace delay; Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend, Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.
Time goads us on, relentless Sire! On to the shadowy Shape, that stands Terrific on the funeral pyre, Waving the already kindled brands.-- Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed, Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.
Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood, That skirts the verge of mortal light, He chains the Forms, on earth that stood Proud, and gigantic in their might; That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.
In vain the bleeding field we shun, In vain the loud and whelming wave; And, as autumnal winds come on, And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave, Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar, In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door.
The universal lot ordains We seek the black Cocytus' stream, That languid strays thro' dreary plains, Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam; Where the fell Brides their fruitless toil bemoan, And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone.