The god we now behold with opened eyes,
A herd of spotted panthers round him lies
In glaring forms; the grapy clusters spread
On his fair brows, and dangle on his head.
Ants do no bend their ways to empty barns, so no friend will visit the place of departed wealth.
[Lat., Horrea formicae tendunt ad inania nunquam
Nullus ad amissas ibit amicus opes.]
Our native land charms us with inexpressible sweetness, and never never allows us to forget that we belong to it.
[Lat., Nescio qua natale solum dulcedine captos
Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui.]