That not the shadow of death could make less clear and proud.

47.

With gracious gods he communed, honouring thus

At once by service and similitude,

Service devout and worship emulous

Of the same golden Muses once they wooed,

The names and shades adored of all of us,

The nurslings of the brave world's earlier brood,

Grown gods for us themselves: Theocritus

First, and more dear Catullus, names bedewed

With blessings bright like tears

From the old memorial years,

And loves and lovely laughters, every mood

Sweet as the drops that fell

Of their own œnomel

From living lips to cheer the multitude

That feeds on words divine, and grows

More worthy, seeing their world reblossom like a rose.

48.

Peace, the soft seal of long life's closing story,

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