Bkii:Vii A Friend Home From The Wars

O Pompey, often led, with me, by Brutus, the head of our army, into great danger, who’s sent you back, as a citizen, to your country’s gods and Italy’s sky, Pompey, the very dearest of my comrades, with whom I’ve often drawn out the lingering day in wine, my hair wreathed, and glistening with perfumed balsam, of Syrian nard? I was there at Philippi, with you, in that headlong flight, sadly leaving my shield behind, when shattered Virtue, and what threatened from an ignoble purpose, fell to earth. While in my fear Mercury dragged me, swiftly, through the hostile ranks in a thickening cloud: the wave was drawing you back to war, carried once more by the troubled waters. So grant Jupiter the feast he’s owed, and stretch your limbs, wearied by long campaigning, under my laurel boughs, and don’t spare the jars that were destined to be opened by you. Fill the smooth cups with Massic oblivion, pour out the perfume from generous dishes, Who’ll hurry to weave the wreathes for us of dew-wet parsley or pliant myrtle? Who’ll throw high Venus at dice and so become the master of drink? I’ll rage as insanely as any Thracian: It’s sweet to me to revel when a friend is home again.