 | Poems upon Several Occasions |  |
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PINDARIQUE ODES.
Virgil. Eclog. 4.
------ Paulo majora canamus.
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Out of Horace.
Carm. Lib. 2. Ode 14. Paraphrased.
I.
Ah! dearest Friend, the Years are flying;They flie alass! they pass away
(Like a swift Stream) and will in no wise stay;
There's a necessity of dying.
Neither thy Wisdom, Friend, nor all thy Care
Can cure, or hide the Footsteps of old Age
Which in thy rev'rend Face begin t'appear.
Nor can thy deep Philosophy asswage
The Fury of that mighty Conq'ror Death,
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Before the Terrour of his Presence fall,
Who walk upon the Earth, or underneath
Within the Waters play, or in the Air do breath.
II.
Tho' ev'ry day throughout the rowling YearOn Pluto's Altar thou shouldst burn
Three Hundred chosen Bulls, thou canst not turn
His unrelenting Heart, nor bow his stubborn Ear:
Who keeps imprison'd in his brazen Hold
The Giants, and the mighty Men of old;
In vain they struggle to get out,
For cruel Fates with hold.
The Gates are Iron, and the Walls are high,
And the grim Porter Cerb'rus doth before the Entrance lie.
And the black River, like a folding Snake
In Nine deep Circles guards it round about,
E'en Styx the fatal Lake
O'er which we all must pass, and ne'e return agen,
Be we, or pow'rful Kings, or simple Country Men.
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III.
Why do we labour then in vain to shunThe various Dangers hanging o'er our Head,
That so we may spin out a tangled and uneven Thread,
In vain, in vain we run
From the devouring Sword and thundring Gun;
Tempestuous Seas we fear in vain,
And Fevers which in Autumn reign;
Since if all these were absent, yet
By a strong Law which cannot be withstood,
We're bound to die, and see the slothful Flood
Of black Cocytus, and that impious Brood
Which shed their sleeping Bridegroom's Blood,
And of a Nuptial made a winding Sheet;
Now they with endless Labour groan,
And wish they had not Swords, but only Distaves known:
And Sisyphus, condemn'd to roll the restless Stone.
IV.
Thy hoarded Treasures, and thy Manner house,From whose aspiring Tow'rs thou may'st descrie
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Yet canst not measure out the Bounds
Of thine own Grounds,
So far extended every Way they lie,
Beyond the reach of all, except the World's great Eye,
Must all be left, together with thy pleasant Spouse,
In whose bright Wit and Beauty now thy Mind
Doth soft, but sound Contentment find.
Of all the Trees, which now with equal Art & Care
Thy wise industrious Hand doth rear;
Not one will wait upon thee (save
A Bunch of mournful Cypress) to the Grave.
V.
The wiser and more noble HeirSince he t'enjoy with freedom will not grutch
What thou so niggardly dost spare,
And, like things hallow'd, art afraid to touch,
Will lavishly consume and spend
(As if they ne'er could have an end)
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Which now are lock'd up with an Hundred Keys,
And bring the Pris'ners forth to the long wish'd for Light.
He with his boon Companions will carouse
And roar and frolick in thy House,
And with the Ladies Dance and Revel all the Night;
And wash the Floor with Floods of richer Wine
Than they but sip, who at my Lord-May'r's Table Dine.
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