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185

ODE XII. TO MÆCENAS.

Weighty and tragical subjects are not proper for the Lyric stile. Horace will sing of nothing but the beauty of Lycymnia, and matters pertaining to love.

Numantia's fierce and bloody wars,
And Hannibal, your taste abhors,
Too dire a subject for a song;
Nor staining the Sicilian sea,
Can Carthaginian blood to me
And to my warbling lyre belong.
Nor can the Lapithan malign,
Nor over-charg'd with heady wine,
Hyleus suit the lyric strain,
Nor any giant son of earth,
The victim of Herculean worth,
And dread of Saturn's golden reign.
But, O Mæcenas, as for you,
You will for great Augustus do
Far better in historic prose:
With more address you'll tell than sing
The story of full many a king,
That drag'd in pomp triumphal goes.
Me the harmonious muse allures,
To chant my lady fair, and your's,
And praise Lycymnia's charming voice,
And eyes, that sparkle like the spheres,
With faithful heart, that never veers,
When she's once settled in her choice.
187

She's graceful in each bright advance,
Whether she lead the seemly dance,
Or urge the brilliant repartees,
Or with the noble damsels play,
That honour Dian's holiday,
Uniting dignity and ease.
Would you in earnest change one lock
Of sweet Lycymnia, for the stock
That rich Achemenes possess'd,
Or fertile Phrygia's wealthy fleece,
Or all Arabia's ambergreese,
And houses with all plenty bless'd.
While she declines her blooming cheek,
Where you the burning kisses seek,
With such benevolent disdain,
And what she'd rather have, than thee,
Refuses, till she makes so free
As to devour them all again.
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