ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS.
Whose return to his native country he congratulates.
O Pompey! oft reduc'd with me
To danger's last extremity,
When Brutus led the van—what pow'r on high
Restores thy native Gods, and an Italian sky?
Thou principal and dearest friend,
With whom I've made the day suspend
Its course, infringing on the hours of care,
With bays, and precious essence on our shining hair.
With thee I saw
that fatal field,
Where shamefully I left my shield
In rapid flight, when valour's heart was broke,
And threat'ning heroes fell beneath the hostile stroke.
But me Mercurius, much dismay'd,
Quick thro' the midmost foe convey'd
In a thick cloud—Thou wert ingulph'd again
In struggling tides of war upon the swelt'ring plain:
Wherefore to Jove the feast be paid,
And let your weary limbs be laid,
After long warfare, underneath my bay;
Nor spare the casks I destin'd for this joyful day.
Fill the bright tumblers to the brim,
And in oblivious Massic swim,
And from large shells the fragrant unguents pour.
—Who runs to parsley beds, or to the myrtle bow'r,
For cooling crowns? who throws the most
To take the chair and give the toast?
I will the Bacchanalian priests outdo—
'Tis sweet to lose one's wits at this dear interview.
