ODE VIII. To Mæcenas.
1
In
Greek and Roman Writings skill'd,
You wonder what these Vases, fill'd
With Incense, mean; and why my Head
Flowers on this Festival adorn;
And why on verdant Turf I burn
These Coals, a Stranger to the genial Bed!
2
To Bacchus' Guardian Power, the Blood
Of a white Goat I grateful vow'd,
When just escap'd the falling Oak;
And now, as Years renew the Feast,
Of all my Casks will pierce the best,
Since Tullus rul'd, improv'd with mellowing Smoke.
3
A hundred Glasses to a Friend
Sav'd from such Peril, should commend
Your Love, Mæcenas!—To our Joys,
Prolong'd by watchful Lamps till Light,
Devote we this auspicious Night
Of social Mirth, but free from Jars and Noise.
4
Awhile forget your Civil Cares;
Discard each Thought of State-Affairs;
The Dacian Chief is overthrown;
The Medes conspire against their Lords,
Frantic they fight, nor wait our Swords,
But fall in Crowds, the Victims of their own.
5
To Rome, our old Cantabrian Foes,
And Scythians yield, with loosen'd Bows.
Let Sages future Fate foretell,
And o'er the public Safety watch,
While we the present Moment snatch,
And, high in Spirits, bid our Cares farewell.
