Page:Tragedies of Seneca (1907) Miller.djvu/212

194 With thine ivy-clad spear the tigers driving, And thy turban set on thy hornéd head: Not thus will thy glorious locks outshine The unadorned hair of Hippolytus. And admire not thy beauty over much, For fame has spread the story far, How Phaedra's sister preferred to thee, O Bromius, a mortal man. Ah beauty, a doubtful boon art thou, The gift of a fleeting hour! How swift On flying feet thou glidest away! So flowery meadows of the spring The summer's burning heat devours, When midday's raging sun rides high, And night's brief round is hurried through. As the lilies languish on their stems, So pleasing tresses fail the head; And swiftly is the radiance dimmed Which gleams from the tender cheeks of youth! Each day hath its spoil from the lovely form; For beauty flees and soon is gone. Who then would trust a gift so frail? Nay, use its joys, while still thou mayst; For silent time will soon destroy thee, And hours to baser hours steal on. Why seek the desert wilds? Thy form Is no more safe in pathless ways. If in the forest's depths thou hide, When Titan brings the noonday heat, The saucy Naïds will surround thee, Who are wont in their clear springs to snare The lovely youth; and 'gainst thy sleep The wanton goddesses of groves, The Dryads, who the roving Pans Drive in pursuit, will mischief plot. Or else that glowing star, whose birth The old Arcadians beheld, Will see thee from the spangled sky, And straight forget to drive her car.