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A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace

With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition
Francis, Philip (1708?-1773)
  
[epigraph]

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VOL. I.
  
[dedication]
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THE ODES OF HORACE.
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THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.
 I. 
Ode I. To Mæcenas.
 II. 
Ode II. To Augustus.
 III. 
Ode III. To the Ship in which Virgil sailed to Athens.
 IV. 
Ode IV. To Sestius.
 V. 
Ode V. To Pyrrha.
 VI. 
Ode VI. To Agrippa.
 VII. 
Ode VII. To Munatius Plancus.
 VIII. 
Ode VIII. To Lydia.
 IX. 
Ode IX. To Thaliarchus.
 X. 
Ode X. Hymn to Mercury.
 XI. 
Ode XI. To Leuconoe.
 XII. 
Ode XII. Hymn to Jove.
 XIII. 
Ode XIII. To Lydia.
 XIV. 
Ode XIV. To the Republic.
 XV. 
Ode XV. The Prophecy of Nereus.
 XVI. 
Ode XVI. To Tyndaris.
 XVII. 
Ode XVII. To Tyndaris.
 XVIII. 
Ode XVIII. To Varus.
 XIX. 
Ode XIX. On Glycera.
 XX. 
Ode XX. To Mæcenas.
 XXII. 
Ode XXII. To Aristius Fuscus.
 XXIII. 
Ode XXIII. To Chloe.
 XXIV. 
Ode XXIV. To Virgil.
 XXV. 
Ode XXV. To Lydia.
 XXVI. 
Ode XXVI. To his Muse.
 XXVII. 
Ode XXVII. To his Companions.
 XXVIII. 
Ode XXVIII. A Mariner and the Ghost of Archytas.
 XXIX. 
Ode XXIX. To Iccius.
 XXX. 
Ode XXX. To Venus.
 XXXI. 
Ode XXXI. To Apollo.
 XXXII. 
Ode XXXII. To his Lyre.
 XXXIII. 
Ode XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.
 XXXIV. 
Ode XXXIV.
 XXXV. 
Ode XXXV. To Fortune.
 XXXVI. 
Ode XXXVI.
 XXXVII. 
Ode XXXVII. To his Companions.
 XXXVIII. 
Ode XXXVIII. To his Slave.
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THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.
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THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.
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THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.
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THE BOOK OF THE EPODES of HORACE.
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THE SECULAR POEM.
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VOL. II.

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Ode XIV. To the Republic.

Ill-fated Vessel! shall the Waves again
Tempestuous bear thee to the faithless Main?
What would thy Madness, thus with Storms to sport?
Ah! yet with Caution seize the friendly Port.
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Behold thy naked Decks; the Southern Blast,
Hark! how it whistles through thy rending Mast!
Nor without Ropes thy Keel can longer brave
The rushing Fury of th'imperious Wave:
Torn are thy Sails, thy Guardian Gods are lost,
Whom you might call in future Tempests tost.
What though majestic in your Pride you stood
A noble Daughter of the Pontic Wood,
You now may vainly boast an empty Name,
Or Birth conspicuous in the Rolls of Fame;
The Mariner, when Storms around him rise,
No longer on a painted Stern relies.
Ah! yet take heed, lest these new Tempests sweep
In sportive Rage thy Glories to the Deep.
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Thou late my deep Anxiety and Fear,
And now my fond Desire and tender Care,
Ah! yet take heed, avoid those fatal Seas,
Which roll among the shining Cyclades.
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