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ODE XII. To Augustus.
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ODE XII. To Augustus.

What Man? What Hero wilt thou claim?
What God-head, Muse? For whom inspire
Thy warbling Pipe or Lyre,
While sportful Echo sounds thy dancing Name?
Whether in Pindus' Shades I rove,
Or near the Muses sacred Spring,
Or on cold Hæmus sing,
Whence tuneful Orpheus drew the list'ning Grove.
He knew to charm, or Earth, or Sky;
Soon as his Mother's Harp he strung,
The Trees with Ears were hung,
The Streams forgot to flow, the Winds to fly.

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What nobler Theme than he, who steers
The World, obedient to his Sway,
Whom Gods and Men obey:
Who guides the Earth, and Sea, and fleeting Years?
He claims the first and highest Place:
Nothing so great, so wise, above,
NoneSecond is to Jove.
But Pallas next to him deserves our Praise.
I'll Bacchus' Fights exalt on high,
And fierce Diana's Sylvan Arts,
And great Apollo's Darts,
That from the fatal Bow unerring fly.
I'll sing Alcides and the Twins,
Renown'd on Horse-back or on Foot;
To push the Martial Rout:
Whose Star propitious to the Sailor shines;
The Clouds disperse when they arise,
The warring Winds are hush'd asleep,
Serenely smiles the Deep,
And smooth the Surface of old Ocean lyes.
Shall I hehearse wise Numa's State,
Or Romulus th' immortal Man:
Or Tarquin's haughty Reign
And pompous Life, or Cato's nobler Fate?
The Scauri lavish of their Blood,
Or brave Fabricius fond of Fame
Or Regulus, bright Name!
Or Paulus, ever glorious, though subdu'd?
A homely Cott and private State
Produc'd Camillus, fam'd in War,
In Rules of Life severe,
And Curius, in his manly Roughness great.

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Marcellus, like a Tree, aspires
To Glory, free from Noise and Care:
Whilst the gay Julian Star,
Like the round Moon, out-shines the lesser Fires.
Lord of Mankind! the World's wide Sway,
And Cæsar's Life, are in thy Pow'r:
The Fates could give no more;
O truly great, whom Cæsar must obey!
Let Cæsar tame the distant East,
And chace with just vindictive Arms
Terror and dread Alarms,
When Parthian Foes the Roman Coasts infest.
Cæsar and Jove shall rule the World;
Jove on Olympus rides confest,
In Pow'r and Glory drest,
Whilst at polluted Groves his angry Bolts are hurl'd,