University of Virginia Library

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I. To Venus.

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Again? new Tumults in my Breast?]

Again? new Tumults in my Breast?
Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
I am not now, alas! the Man
As in the gentle Reign of my Queen Anne.
Ah sound no more thy soft Alarms,
Nor circle sober fifty with thy Charms.
Mother too fierce of dear Desires!
Turn, turn to willing Hearts your wanton Fires.
To Number five direct your Doves,
There spread round Murray all your blooming Loves;
Noble and young, who strikes the Heart
With every sprightly, every decent Part;
Equal, the injur'd to defend,
To charm the Mistress, or to fix the Friend.
He, with a hundred Arts refin'd,
Shall stretch thy Conquests over half the Kind:
To Him each Rival shall submit,
Make but his Riches equal to his Wit.
Then shall thy Form the Marble grace,
(Thy Grecian Form) and Chloe lend the Face:
His House, embosom'd in the Grove,
Sacred to social Life, and social Love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent Green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary Scene:
Thither the silver-sounding Lyres
Shall call the smiling Loves and young Desires;
There every Grace and Muse shall throng,
Exalt the Dance, or animate the Song;
There Youths and Nymphs, in Concert gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting Day.
With Me, alas! those Joys are o'er;
For Me the vernal Garlands bloom no more.
Adieu! fond Hope of mutual Fire,
The still believing, still renew'd Desire;
Adieu! the Heart-expanding Bowl,
And all the kind Deceivers of the Soul!
But why, ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my Cheek th'involuntary Tear?
Why Words so flowing, Thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn Nonsense, at one Glance of Thee?
Thee, dress'd in Fancy's airy Beam,
Absent I follow thro' th'extended Dream;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy Charms,
And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my Arms;
And swiftly shoot along the Mall,
Or softly glide by the Canal,
Now shown by Cynthia's silver Ray,
And now on rolling Waters snatch'd away.

ODE II. To Antonius Julus.

Whoe'er would soar to Pindar's Height
Attempts a bold but dangerous Flight
On waxen Wings, and, lost to Shame,
Will give, like Icarus, the Sea a Name.
As, rais'd above its Banks by Showers,
A River from a Mountain pours,
Rolls Pindar his impetuous Song,
And with resistless Fury sweeps along.
Justly he claims Apollo's Bays,
Whether in free unfetter'd Lays,
Thro' Dithyrambic Metre bold,
New Words with lawless Energy are roll'd;
Or whether he, in measur'd Verse,
Of Gods, or Chiefs, the Praise rehearse;
Chiefs, sprung from Gods, whose Force could tame
[illeg.] Centaurs Might, and quench Chimæra's Flame.
If with some Bride, in moving Strains,
He of her Consort's Loss complains,
And to the Stars exalts the Youth,
For Courage, Piety, and ancient Truth;
Or if the Hero, crown'd with Palms,
Or Victor Courser he embalms,
His lasting Lays in Worth surpass
The breathing Marble, and sepulchral Brass!
When the Dircæan Swan would rise,
A Whirlwind bears him to the Skies:
But as the Bee, with ceaseless Toil,
From each fair Flower collects her balmy Spoil;
Laborious thus my weaker Muse
Light Themes in Tibur's Bower pursues:
But You shall to a bolder String
The just Applause of matchless Cæsar sing;
While round his Head the Laurel weaves,
For Conquests won, her verdant Leaves;
And the Sicambrian we survey,
In Fetters dragg'd along the Sacred Way.
Never was Gift so good and great
Bestow'd on Man by Heaven, or Fate,
Nor shall again, should Time be roll'd,
With backward Course, to his primæval Gold.
And You shall sing, in grateful Lays,
The Feasts that Rome to Cæsar pays;
The City's public Sports; the Bar
Freed from litigious Suits, and noisy War.
I too, with feeble Voice, will join
My Song to Your's; ‘O Phœbus! shine
‘Auspicious, with thy brightest Ray,
‘And grace the Rites of this distinguish'd Day.’
Then Incense to the Gods shall rise,
And shouting Iös rend the Skies;
All Rome shall join in choral Song,
As Cæsar's Train triumphant moves along.
Your Vow ten Bulls, as many Kine
Absolve; a sportive Heifer mine,
Wean'd from his Mother; on whose Brows,
Full in the Front, a Star its Lustre shows;
A Gloss of fallow Hue adorns
His Skin; the Crescent of his Horns,
So sharply turn'd, salutes the Sight,
Like Cynthia's Fires, the third revolving Night.

Part of The Same Ode Imitated.

[Whoe'er, with impious Hand, essays]

Whoe'er, with impious Hand, essays
To sully Milton's spotless Lays,
In grisly Form will soon appear,
Like Lauder, touch'd with your Ithuriel-Spear.
As from Plinlimmon, swoln with Showers
And wintry Snows, Sabrina pours
Down Cambria's Vales; so Milton's Song
With unresisted Fury sweeps along.
Th'Homeric Wreath he well may claim,
(Like Him in Fortune as in Fame,)
Whether high Heaven resound th'Alarms
Of Angels and Archangels, clad in Arms;
Or whether he thro' Eden leads
Our Steps, o'er Lawns and flowery Meads,
Where the fring'd Bank green Myrtles crown,
And Shades, unpierc'd, the noon-tide Bowers imbrown.
Whene'er, to vain Delights a Foe,
He pensive strikes the Strings of Woe;
Or bids Euphrosyné the Lyre
Resume, and warble to the dancing Choir;
Or crowns his lost Companion's Shrine,
Or bids us Comus' Revels join;
Not Hayman's or Roubilliac's Art
Such Life, such Grace, such Energy impart!
Thro' Tracts conceal'd from mortal Sight
Our British Eagle wings his Flight,
And basks, undazzled at the Blaze,
Like his own Uriel, in the Solar Rays.
My Muse, with weak but arduous Toil,
Culls, like the Bee, her balmy Spoil,
Ambitious, in these classic Bowers,
To draw Horatian Sweets from British Flowers.
Mean while 'tis yours, with patriot Zeal,
This dark Imposture to reveal,
And deathless Amaranth, which grew
Fast by the Tree of Life, now blooms for You.

ODE III. To his Muse.

He, on whose Birth the Lyric Queen
Of Numbers smil'd, shall never grace
The Isthmian Gauntlet, or be seen
First in the fam'd Olympic Race.
He shall not, after Toils of War,
And humbling haughty Monarchs Pride,
With laurel'd Brows conspicuous far,
To Jove's Tarpeïan Temple ride.
But Him the Streams, that warbling flow
Rich Tibur's fertile Meads along,
And shady Groves, his Haunts, shall know
The Master of th'Æolian Song.
The Sons of Rome, majestic Rome!
Have plac'd me in the Poet's Choir,
And Envy now, or dead, or dumb,
Forbears to blame what they admire.
Goddess of the sweet-sounding Lute,
Which thy harmonious Touch obeys,
Who can'st the finny Race, tho' mute,
To Cygnets dying Accents raise;
Thy Gift it is, that all with Ease
Me Prince of Roman Lyrics own;
That, while I live, my Numbers please,
If pleasing, is thy Gift alone!

The Same ODE Imitated.

[Whoe'er, to studious Leisure train'd]

Whoe'er, to studious Leisure train'd,
Has once a Fellowship obtain'd,
In Granta's learn'd Retreat,
No more with Syllogistic Cares
Perplex'd, at Dinner and at Prayers
Assumes a loftier Seat.
No more he echoes in the Hall,
With loud declamatory Brawl,
The Fame of Rome and Greece,
And crowns with a triumphal Car
Returning Heroes, great in War,
And amiable in Peace.
Now with his Brethren view him roll,
With many a Shrug, the winding Bowl
Along the level Green;
Now, unrestrain'd, behold him rove
On Cam's fair Borders, thro' the Grove,
Where Scholars ne'er are seen.
When seven long Years are now complete,
He in the Senate takes his Seat
Each Congregation Day;
And envies no applauded Wits,
While there on equal Terms he sits
By Mason, Hurd, and Gray.
By thy blest Aid, O powerful Grace!
The Sons of Lords obtain a Place
Among the Sons of Art;
Thou point'st a ready Way to Fame,
And ev'n to Dukes the sacred Name
Of Doctors can'st impart!
From thee our Votes and Voices flow,
To thee the silken Hoods we owe
That float adown our Shoulders;
By thee, on festal Days, the Gown
Of Scarlet charms the gaping Town,
And dazzles all Beholders.
Tho' thou hast oft bestow'd Rewards
On Statesmen, Sages, Peers and Bards,
And crown'd their high Deserts;
Yet wond'ring Strangers stare to see
Full many a Blockhead made by thee
A Master of the Arts.

ODE IV. The Praises of Drusus and Tiberius.

As Jove's imperial Bird, to whom the Sway
O'er all the feather'd Race was given,
(For so did he his faithful Favourite pay,
For wafting Ganymed to Heaven)
With native Vigour join'd to youthful Prime,
Springs from the Nest, tho' check'd by Fear,
Unwonted Heights with tender Wing to climb,
The Sky when Summer Breezes clear:
With hostile Rage the Spoiler next descends,
Impetuous, on the bleating Fold;
Thence, more assur'd, reluctant Dragons rends,
With Love of Prey and Combat bold:
Or as a Kid, on Pastures fair to graze
Intent, the Lion's Progeny,
Wean'd from his yellow Mother's Milk, surveys;
By Fangs in Slaughter new, to die;
Such Drusus the Vindelici beheld
Beneath the Alps, unmatch'd in War!
And, by a sage and youthful Leader quell'd,
The Troops, victorious long and far,
Prov'd what a Genius and a Mind could dare,
By Precept and Example taught;
And what, Augustus! thy Paternal Care
In either Nero's Bloom has wrought.
The Brave beget the Brave: The Bull, the Steed,
Are stamp'd upon their generous Race;
Nor is the Dove's unwarlike Brood decreed
The Royal Eagle to disgrace.
But Culture calls the hidden Vigour forth,
And Virtue, when on Learning built,
Confirms the Heart: In Blood, devoid of Worth,
The conscious Shame enhances Guilt.
What Rome her Neros owes, let Asdrubal
Be Witness, that decisive Day,
The first, that near Metaurus by his Fall
From Latium chas'd the Night away:
When the dire African to Mars, among
Th'Italian Cities gave the Rein,
Impetuous as the Flame, that runs along
The Pines, or Eurus o'er the Main.
From that bright Dawn the Roman Youth sustain'd,
With better Fate, the Toils of Fight:
And the sad Shrines, by Punic Foes profan'd,
Now found their Guardian Gods upright.
When Hannibal at length desponding spoke:
‘Like Stags, the Prey of Wolves, are We,
‘And rashly to the Fight such Foes provoke,
‘As to elude were Victory.
‘The Warrior Race, who to the Latian Coast,
‘From Ilium sunk in Grecian Fires,
‘Convey'd their Gods, on Tuscan Billows tost,
‘Their Offspring and their aged Sires,
‘Uninjur'd, like the widely-spreading Oak
‘On Algidus with Shade embrown'd,
‘Defy the sturdy Steel's repeated Stroke,
‘And draw new Vigour from the Wound.
‘Not baffled Hercules receiv'd a Foil
‘More grievous from the sprouting Store
‘Of Hydra's Heads; no greater Pest the Soil
‘Of Thebes or Colchis ever bore.
‘Plung'd in the Deep, more graceful thence they spring,
‘The Sons of dearly purchas'd Fame!
Tho' thrown, with vast Applause the Victor fling,
‘And Matrons their Exploits proclaim.
‘With lofty Tidings I shall ne'er again
‘My long-triumphant Carthage hail;
‘Lost, lost, in Asdrubal untimely slain,
‘Our Name's best Hope and Fortune fail!’
The Claudian Hands all Wonders shall perform,
By Jove's indulgent Aid secur'd,
And, by sagacious Care, to rule the Storm
Of well-conducted War, inur'd.

ODE V. To Augustus.

O born when Stars auspicious smil'd;
Of joyful Rome thou Guardian mild!
No longer let the Senate mourn,
But, faithful to thy Word, return!
Indulgent Chief, O! chear our Hearts,
For, as the Spring new Life imparts,
So, in thy Presence, smoother run
The Hours, and brighter shines the Sun.
As some fond Mother begs of Heaven,
Her Boy may to her Arms be given,
Whom Winds, with envious Blast, detain
Beyond the rough Carpathian Main;
Her Hands she raises to the Skies,
Nor from the Shore can turn her Eyes;
Thy Country, smit with warm Desires,
Devoutly thus her Lord requires!
For safe our Oxen graze the Plain,
And Ceres crowns with golden Grain
Our smiling Fields. From Shore to Shore,
The Merchant wafts his costly Store.
Justice her Head unblemish'd rears,
Nor any Violation fears.
Adultery, that spotted Crime,
No more pollutes our happy Clime.
Example has a powerful Sway,
The People Thine with Joy obey!
To the chaste Mother's just Renown,
By his like Son the Sire is known.
The Pains, to flagrant Vices due,
The bold Offender strait pursue.
If Cæsar be but safe, who fears
Th'enormous Sons Germania rears?
Who trembles at th'Iberian War,
Or Parthians, shooting from afar?
In his own Vineyard each Man spends
The Day; and with sweet Labour tends
His rural Task; to prune, or twine
Round the tall Elm the fruitful Vine;
Then takes a simple cheap Repaste;
And, ere he will presume to taste
The second Course, Libations pours,
And with his Houshold Gods adores
Cæsar belov'd!—We bless thy Name,
And join Thee living to the Fame
Of Castor and great Hercules,
The tutelary Gods of Greece!
‘May'st thou, indulgent Chief, prolong
‘Our Joy with many a Festal Song!’
Thus, sober in the Morn, we pray;
And, mellow, thus we close the Day.

The Same ODE Imitated.

To the King.

ODE VI. To Apollo.

ODE VII. To Manlius Lucius Torquatus.

The Snow is melted. See! the Ground
Fresh Verdure wears; the Trees with Leaves are crown'd.
Earth smiles reviv'd. The Rivers know
Their Bounds, and gently in their Channels flow.
The Graces and the Wood-Nymphs dare,
With Face unveil'd, to dance in open Air.
The Hours, that whirl along the Day,
Admonish us of fleeting Life's Decay.
To Zephyr's soothing Power succeeds
Fierce Summer's Rage, and burns the thirsty Meads:
Then Autumn, crown'd with Apples, rears
His jovial Head: Slow Winter last appears,
Loaded with Ice, and Storms, and Rain,
Till Spring rolls round the various Year again.
The waning Moons their changeful Face
Monthly renew, and shine with wonted Grace.
But to the dreary Realms below
Who sink; must no Return for ever know!
Enroll'd among the mighty Dead,
Our Body will be Dust, our Soul a Shade.
Old Charon to the Stygian Shore
Pious Æneas, Tullus, Ancus, bore.
What Mortal can presume to say,
The Gods to this will add another Day?
Indulge your Genius then, nor spare
Your Treasure, to enrich a greedy Heir!
When You among the Shades are cast,
And Minos has the solemn Sentence past;
Nor Birth, Torquatus! Eloquence,
Nor Piety, can e'er recall you thence.
The Sylvan Goddess wish'd in vain,
Her chaste Hippolytus from Styx to gain.
Nor could great Theseus ever rend
The Adamantine Fetters of his Friend.

ODE VIII. To Martius Censorinus.

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Did but kind Fate to Me impart]

ODE IX. To Lollius.

The Same ODE Imitated.

Think not, my Lord, these Strains shall die,
Or sink in Lethe's Stream;
No—they shall Time's rude Grasp defy,
Protected by their Theme.
Tho' foremost in the Lists of Fame
We matchless Milton place,
Yet long will Pope's distinguish'd Name
The Muse's Annals grace.
Tho' Nature's own heart-melting Lyre
Immortal Shakespeare won,
Still deigns the Goddess to inspire
Her favourite Richardson.
Our Edwards and our Henries Praise
Grows with increasing Years,
And Britons still attune their Lays
To Cressy and Poictiers;
Yet shall each Veteran Chief with Flowers
Bestrew his Anna's Shrine,
And long to Fame shall Blenheim's Towers
Their Marlb'rough's Deeds consign.
Before great Alfred, we could boast
Of Princes brave and good,
Yet all, by Bards unsung, are lost
In dark Oblivion's Flood.
In Marston's Shades unseen, unknown,
Conceal'd thy Virtues lie;
O let them now, in Senate shown,
Attract the public Eye.
Tho' every Muse her Spirit breathes
On Thee; and every Grace
Adorns thy Brow with Olive Wreaths,
Familiar to thy Race;
Yet now the Converse of the Dead
For active Scenes decline;
For O! the Living want each Head,
And claim each Heart like thine.
To Laurentinum's Grove retir'd,
Thy Pliny fled from Care,
Yet, when his Country's Voice requir'd,
He fill'd the Consul's Chair.
Then, like that Consul, lend thy Aid
To prop our tottering Walls;
For Rome demands thee from the Shade,
And hoary Nerva calls.

ODE X. To Ligurina.

Blest as thou art with Beauty's Arms,
And proudly wanton in Excess of Charms,
What tho' kind Venus decks thy Face
With all the blushing Violet's purple Grace?
What tho' she taught that Hair to break
In easy Ringlets, o'er thy polish'd Neck?
Pale Age shall soon that Face invade,
And thy grey Locks forget their nut-brown Shade
Then at thy Glass (if there that Day
Thou dar'st to look) repentant thou shalt say,
‘Why were the Charms of Youth consign'd
‘In vain Profusion to so proud a Mind?
‘Or why, since now that Pride is o'er,
‘Will Youth with all its Charms return no more?’

ODE XI. To Phyllis.

ODE XII. To Virgil.

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Observe how calmly warm, my Friend]

ODE XIII.

[Lyce, at length my Vows are heard]

ODE XIV. To Augustus.

ODE XV. To Augustus.