The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE Anthony Lord Feversham. This First Book OF THE ODES of HORACE Is Inscribed BY His Lordship's Affectionate Kinsman, and most Obliged Humble Servant, The Editor.

ODE I. To Mæcenas.

Mæcenas! from an ancient Race
Of Kings deriv'd; my Guard and Grace!
There are, who to the Chariot trust;
And, clouded with Olympic Dust,
With fervid Wheels the Goal decline,
Where Victors claim the Palm divine.

In Civic Honours some rejoice,
Rais'd by the giddy Vulgar's Voice;
And some with Libyan Crops to fill
Their ample Garners; this to till

His native Farm; nor would he yield
The scanty Produce of his Field,
The Wealth of Attalus to gain,
By risking Dangers on the Main.

The Merchants, tost on stormy Seas,
Applaud Content and home-felt Ease;
And yet, impatient Want to bear,
Their shatter'd Vessels strait repair.

Old Massic Wine regales the Taste
Of him, who half the Day can waste
Beneath the fragrant Myrtle's Shade,
Or by a sacred Fountain laid.

To Camps and Wars, the Matron's Hate,
The Trumpet calls her daring Mate.

The Hunter flies his Consort's Arms,
Forgetful of her blooming Charms,
At Break of Day, 'midst chilling Snow,
With Hounds to chase the fearful Doe;
Or make the Marsian Boar his Prey,
Who thro' the Toils has forc'd his Way.

An Ivy Crown ennobles Me,
Whose darling Joy is Poetry.
If soft Euterpe tune the Flute,
And Polyhymnia strike the Lute,

In some obscure Recess I sing
A shady Grove and purling Spring,
Where the light Choir of Nymphs advance,
With Satyrs, in the mazy Dance.
But if Mæcenas place my Name
Among the Bards of Lyric Fame,
Above the Crowd I then shall rise,
And touch with lofty Head the Skies.

ODE II. To Augustus Cæsar.

Too long with Storms of Hail and Snow
Has Jove chastis'd the World below;
Too long his red right Arm has thrown
Dire Bolts to strike our Temples down.
Such swelling Waters have appear'd,
The World a second Deluge fear'd.
As when o'er Hills and craggy Rocks
Old Proteus drove his scaly Flocks;
When Shoals of Fishes, breathless, hung
On Trees, where Birds no longer sung;
And every Native of the Plain
At once was swimming in the Main.

We saw destructive Tyber flow,
And Monuments of Kings o'erthrow:
Nor ev'n from Numa's Fane retire,
Nor fear to quench dread Vesta's Fire;
When, mov'd by Tears which Ilia shed,
(His Wife, who mourn'd great Cæsar dead)

Back from the Tuscan Shore he drove
His Waves with too uxorious Love,
And took too much Revenge on Rome,
Reserv'd for Jove's superior Doom.

Our Youth will hear in future Times,
Our Youth (diminish'd by our Crimes),
That with our Blood those Arms we stain,
Which should the Parthian Foe have slain.

What God's Protection shall we crave,
The falling State of Rome to save?
How shall the sacred Virgin Throng
Make Vesta listen to their Song?
To whom will Jove the Pow'r convey,
To expiate all our Guilt away?
Clouds round thy glitt'ring Shoulders cast,
And to our Aid, O Phœbus! haste:
Or you, fair Cyprian Queen, descend,
Venus! whom Love and Joy attend:
Or thou, O Mars! whom clamorous Fight,
And shining Arms, alone delight;
To whom no Form so graceful shows,
As Warriors frowning on their Foes:
On thy neglected Race look down,
Whose Blood claims Kindred with thy own.

For sure our Feuds thy Fancy cloy
With Scenes, which once were all thy Joy.

Or if, bright Hermes, You appear,
Disguis'd like young Augustus here,
And, with that Title pleas'd, the Name
Of Cæsar's just Avenger claim,
Late may You rise to Heav'n again,
And long o'er Rome propitious reign;
Nor, at our Crimes offended, fly
Too soon, to bless your native Sky!
Here rather still great Triumphs love;
Here your just Titles still approve;
Of Prince and Father of our Land;
Nor let the Medes insult while You command.

J. D.

ODE III.

[So may th'auspicious Queen of Love]

By John Dryden, Esq.

Inscribed to the Earl of Roscommon, on his intended Voyage to Ireland.

So may th'auspicious Queen of Love,
And the twin Stars, (the Seed of Jove,)
And He, who rules the raging Wind,
To Thee, O sacred Ship! be kind;
And gentle Breezes fill thy Sails,
Supplying soft Etesian Gales;

As thou, to whom the Muse commends,
The best of Poets and of Friends,
Dost thy committed Pledge restore,
And land him safely on the Shore;
And save the better Part of Me,
From perishing with Him at Sea.

Sure He, who first the Passage try'd,
In harden'd Oak his Heart did hide,
And Ribs of Iron arm'd his Side!
Or his at least, in hollow Wood
Who tempted first the briny Flood;
Nor fear'd the Winds contending Roar,
Nor Billows beating on the Shore;
Nor Hyades, portending Rain,
Nor all the Tyrants of the Main.
What Form of Death could him affright,
Who unconcern'd, with stedfast Sight,
Could view the Surges mounting Steep,
And Monsters rolling in the Deep;
Could through the Ranks of Ruin go,
With Storms above, and Rocks below!

In vain did Nature's wise Commmand
Divide the Waters from the Land,

If daring Ships, and Men prophane,
Invade th'inviolable Main;
Th'eternal Fences overleap,
And pass at Will the boundless Deep.

No Toil, no Hardship, can restrain
Ambitious Man inur'd to Pain;
The more confin'd, the more he tries,
And at forbidden Quarry flies.

Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,
And stole from Heav'n the Seeds of Fire:
A Train of Ills, a ghastly Crew,
The Robber's blazing Track pursue;
Fierce Famine, with her meager Face,
And Fevers of the fiery Race,
In Swarms th'offending Wretch surround,
All brooding on the blasted Ground;
And limping Death, lash'd on by Fate,
Comes up to shorten half our Date.

This made not Dædalus beware,
With borrow'd Wings to sail in Air.
To Hell Alcides forc'd his Way,
Plung'd thro' the Lake, and snatch'd the Prey.
Nay scarce the Gods, or heav'nly Climes,
Are safe from our audacious Crimes;

We reach at Jove's imperial Crown,
And pull th'unwilling Thunder down.

The Same Ode Imitated.

To the Yatch, which carried the Duke of Marlborough to Holland.

By William Harison, Esq.

Thrice happy Bark, to whom is giv'n
The Pride of Earth, and Favourite of Heav'n,
Thy every guardian God implore,
And waft th'important Charge to Belgia's Shore;
Where Councils yet suspended wait
Britannia's last Resolves, and Europe's Fate.
So may the Winds with constant Gales
Fulfill thy Purpose, and inspire thy Sails;
Nereids and Nymphs attend thy Side,
Thy glitt'ring Stern protect, and gilded Pride.
Bold was the Man and bravely good,
Who tempted first the Sea's impetuous Flood,
Heard the Waves roar, the Tempests blow,
And sought in foreign Climes the distant Foe;

Who made his Country's Glory known,
And for the public Weal despis'd his own.
Auspicious Isle! in vain design'd,
By jealous Fate, a Stranger to Mankind,
Since uncontroul'd thy Offspring reign,
And sport, and triumph, on the harmless Main!
To manly Souls, resolv'd like theirs,
No Task has Danger, or no Danger, Fears.
Hence, Spirits of a Patriot Mould,
Daringly great, and fortunately bold,
Climbing th'imperial Seat, combine,
To sift the baffled Claim of Right Divine;
And to the World Instruction gave,
Distinguishing the Subject from the Slave.
Then lawless Pow'r receiv'd its Doom,
And Liberty reviv'd with native Bloom.
Though Nature, frugally inclin'd,
Has all her Gifts to narrow Bounds confin'd,
What will not Art and Pains supply?
O'er Waves forbad, in winged Tow'rs we fly,
And with Herculean Toil advance,
To quell th'united Pow'rs of Spain and France.
Nor Heav'n itself is unengag'd
In Wars, for Freedom and for Anna wag'd;

Rouz'd by her pious just Alarms,
Behold! The vengeful Thunderer in Arms,
Surveys the Field, with Slaughter spread,
And points his Churchill at the Tyrants Head.

1707.

ODE IV. To Sestius.

Winter dissolves before the vernal Gale,
And Ships new-rigg'd prepare to sail:
Nor Stalls the Herd, nor Fires the Clown delight;
No more the Meads with Frost are white.
Beneath the rising Moon is Venus seen,
The decent Graces, on the Green
To lead; who, mingling with the Nymphs, advance
With Foot alternate in the Dance;
While Vulcan, toiling with the Cyclops' Band,
Prepares for Jove the flaming Brand.
Now with green Myrtle crown your Brows, or Flow'rs,
Which loosen'd Earth, spontaneous, pours.
It now becomes us, in the shady Groves
To yield the Victim Pan approves.

Impartial Death assaults, with equal Pow'r,
The lowly Cott and regal Tow'r.
O happy Sestius! Life's short fleeting Span
Allows no long protracted Plan;
For soon, too soon! cut off from chearful Light,
We must descend to sullen Night,
And, in the Realms of fabled Shades below,
Thy pining Ghost no Joy shall know;
No longer by the Die's successful Cast,
Shalt thou controul the gay Repast;
No more the soft and soothing amorous Fire
Shall there thy shadowy Form inspire!

ODE V. To Pyrrha.

What slender Boy, with Odors sweet,
Shall in a Grotto's cool Retreat,
Thy too enchanting Form caress,
And on a Couch of Roses press?
For whom in Wreaths dost thou prepare,
So simply neat, thy golden Hair?
How oft, of Gods adjur'd in vain,
And broken Vows, shall he complain?
How oft admire, when Winds arise,
To see black Clouds deform the Skies;
New to the Sex, who tastes thy Charms,
And fondly clasps thee in his Arms;

In thee, a Mistress ever kind,
And ever lovely, hopes to find;
And thinks, too credulous, the Breeze
Will last; nor Tempests toss the Seas!
Ah wretched they! whom Pyrrha's Smile,
And unsuspected Arts beguile!
For Me, the sacred Tablet shows
That I have hung my dripping Cloaths
At Neptune's Shrine: And now on Shore
Secure, I'll tempt the Deep no more.

The Same Ode Imitated.

By Another Hand.

1

In the cooling Grotto's Shade,
On the Rose's Bosom laid,
Fair one, say, what slender Boy,
Breathing spicy Odors round,
Now may teaze, and sweetly toy,
And with Pyrrha's Smiles be crown'd.

2

Whom awaits the golden Snare
(Golden Locks of wreathed Hair!)
Charms in simple Neatness drest;
How, alas! shall he repent,
Sigh and silently lament
Griefs too strong to be exprest!

3

Gods inconstant! Gods estrang'd!
All the Face of Nature chang'd!
Broken Faith and broken Vows!
Boisterous Winds and ruffled Seas!
And a stormy Look, that shows
Thee more cruel still than these.

4

How shall He admire the Change,
(Unexperienc'd in the Sight),
Who, through Love's enchanted Range,
Revelling in gay Delight,
Thinks Thee now and ever his,
Lovely Pledge of future Bliss!

5

Trusting the soft-breathing Gale,
Now he spreads a flowing Sail;

But unhappy is the Youth,
Who, confiding in thy Truth,
Launches in the splendid Rays
Of thy fair delusive Face!

6

I, who lately did arrive,
Safe from Shipwreck, on the Shore,
Sworn to let my Vessel drive
On Love's Ocean never more,
Here this grateful Frame decree
To the God, who rules the Sea!

ODE VI. To Agrippa.

By George Jeffreys, Esq. Formerly Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.

1

A Varius, rais'd on Homer's Wing,
Your Valour and Success demand,
Our gallant Veterans to sing,
Victorious under You by Sea and Land.

2

Such Deeds, Agrippa, to relate,
Is far above my slender Vein;
To reach Achilles' stubborn Hate,
Or sage Ulysses' wand'ring o'er the Main.

3

The Muse, that tunes the bashful Lyre,
Unequal to heroic Lays,
Forbids Me, void of Wit and Fire,
To sully Yours, and sacred Cæsar's Praise.

4

Merion, with Trojan Dust o'erspread,
Or Mars in Arms of Adamant,
Or Diomed, by Pallas' Aid,
A Match for Gods in Battle, who can paint?

5

For Me, untouch'd, or half-subdu'd
By Love, of Feasts, where Virgins fight
With close-par'd Nails their Lovers rude;
With my accustom'd Levity I write.

The Same Ode, Imitated, and addressed to the Duke of Marlborough

By Sir Richard Steele.

When Addison's immortal Verse,
Great Prince, your Glory does rehearse,
With Anna's Lightning You appear,
And glitter o'er again in War,

Repeat the proud Bavarian's Fall,
And in the Danube plunge the Gaul.
'Tis not for Me, your Worth to show,
Or lead Achilles to the Foe,
Describe stern Diomed in Fight,
And put the wounded Gods to Flight.
I dare not, with unequal Rage,
On such a mighty Theme engage;
Nor sully, in a Verse like mine,
Illustrious Anna's Praise, and thine.
Let the laborious Epic Strain,
In lofty Numbers sing the Man,
Who bears to distant Realms her Arms,
And strikes thro' Gallia dread Alarms;
His Courage and his Conduct tell,
And on his various Virtues dwell.

In trifling Cares my humble Muse
A less ambitious Tract pursues.
Instead of Troops in Battle mixt,
And Gauls with British Spears transfixt,
She paints the soft Distress and Mien
Of Dames expiring with the Spleen.
From the gay Noise, affected Air,
And little Follies of the Fair,

A slender Stock of Fame I raise,
And draw from others Faults my Praise.

1709.

ODE VII. To Munatius Plancus.

Some Bards extoll in lofty Lays
Fam'd Rhodes', or Mitylené's Praise:
Thebes, dear to Bacchus, some inspires,
And some Apollo's Delphos fires,
Or Ephesus, or Tempe's Plain,
Or Corinth with her double Main.
Others, untir'd, in endless Verse
Minerva's Tow'rs alone rehearse;
And hence the Olive, lov'd by her,
To every other Tree prefer.
While some, in Juno's Praise, proclaim
Her Argos', or Mycenæ's Fame;

Mycenæ's Realm, with Plenty crown'd,
And Argos' Lawns, for Steeds renown'd.
But neither patient Sparta's Fields,
Nor all the Charms Larissa yields
Of Hill and Valley, please me more
Than hoarse Albunea's deaf'ning Roar,
And Anio rolling in Cascades,
And Tibur's Grove, where thro' the Shades
The Stream, with slow meändring Waves,
My Plancus' Meads and Garden laves.

As Southern Winds oft clear the Sky,
Nor still foretell a Tempest nigh,
Do thou, discreetly, with a Friend
And generous Wine, thy Brows unbend,
Whether the Camp thy Fancy warms,
Or Tibur sooths with peaceful Charms.
When Teucer fled his native Land,
Driv'n by his Father's harsh Command,
(As Fame reports) his reeking Brows
He crown'd with Wreaths of Poplar Boughs,
And, with an animating Look,
His drooping Comrades thus bespoke;
‘Wherever Fortune, less severe
‘Than my stern Sire, our Course shall steer,

‘And point us out the destin'd Way,
‘Chearly we'll follow, and obey.
‘Then let each Fear be laid aside,
‘Teucer's your Leader and your Guide;
‘And faithful Phœbus has foretold,
‘I still my sovereign Pow'r shall hold,
‘And, on some unknown foreign Land,
‘Another Salamis command.

‘My brave Companions, (who before
‘Worse Ills with me undaunted bore)
‘To-day in Wine drown every Pain,
‘To-morrow we'll set sail again.’

ODE VIII. To Lydia.

By Mr. Needler.

By Heav'n, I beg you, Lydia, say,
Why you by Love's bewitching Arts betray
Young Sybaris, and would destroy
His Virtue, by the soft unmanly Joy?
Why does he now the Circus shun,
No longer patient of the Dust and Sun?
Why hates he 'midst the martial Train,
To curb the Gallic Steed with graceful Rein?
Nor dares to brave the Tyber's Flood,
And Wrestler's Oyl fears more than Viper's Blood?
Why do his Arms no longer wear
Of honourable Blows the livid Scar?
Why for the Quoit beyond the Bound
With Vigour hurl'd, is he no more renown'd?
Why like Achilles, when the Host
Of Greece prepar'd to seek the Trojan Coast,
Skulks he at home, unaw'd by Shame,
And sinks in Sloth, and Love's inglorious Flame?

ODE IX. To Thaliarchus.

By John Dryden, Esq.

1

Behold yon Mountain's hoary Height,
Made higher with new Mounts of Snow;
Again behold the Winter's Weight
Oppress the lab'ring Woods below;
And Streams, with icy Fetters bound,
Benumb'd and crampt to solid Ground.

2

With well-heap'd Logs dissolve the Cold,
And feed the genial Hearth with Fires;
Produce the Wine that makes us bold,
And sprightly Wit and Love inspires.

For what hereafter shall betide,
Jove, if it's worth his Care, provide.

3

Let him alone, with what he made,
To toss and turn the World below;
At his Command the Storms invade,
The Winds by his Commission blow;
Till with a Nod he bids them cease,
And then the Calm returns, and all is Peace.

4

To-morrow and her Works defy,
Lay hold upon the present Hour,
And snatch the Pleasures passing by,
To put them out of Fortune's Pow'r:
Nor Love, nor Love's Delights disdain,
Whate'er thou gett'st To-day, is Gain.

5

Secure those golden early Joys,
That Youth, unsour'd with Sorrow, bears,
E're with'ring Time the Taste destroys
With Sickness and unwieldy Years!
For active Sports, for pleasing Rest,
This is the Time to be possest;
The best is but in Season best.

6

Th'appointed Hour of promis'd Bliss,
The pleasing Whisper in the Dark,
The half unwilling willing Kiss,
The Laugh that guides thee to the Mark,
When the kind Nymph would Coyness feign,
And hides but to be found again;
These, these are Joys, the Gods for Youth ordain.

The Same Ode, Imitated. To Philander.

By Thomas Mulso, jun. Esq.

No more the Jess'min shades our naked Bowers;
No more the Groves, or Meadows green appear;
Behold, my Friend, the Tyrant Winter lours;
The shivering God descends in fleecy Showers,
And desolates the Year.
New Hills of Snow upon the Mountains rise,
A hideous Height
Of barren White,
That glares amidst the gloomy Skies!

The lifeless Floods forget to flow,
And stiff with Cold and Horror grow.
Come let us thaw the freezing Blood,
Pile up the chearful-blazing Wood;
See that the life-recruiting Board
With hospitable Plenty's stor'd
Of racy Wines, and generous Food.
Preserve a free and cheerful Mind,
Trust to the Gods for all behind;
And anxious Fears,
And eating Cares,
O give 'em to the restless Wind!
Winter will come, and Storms will rage,
And often vex the troubled Sea;
But Heav'n their Fury will asswage;
And many a Tempest-beaten Tree
Stands to a quiet healthy Age.
Let us be merry whilst we can;
To-day is all that's giv'n to Man;
And why anticipate To-morrow?
'Twill come too soon, if fraught with Sorrow:
Oh! rather the dear Hour prolong
With sprightly Mirth, and Dance, and Song;
Alas! Youth will not last too long!

Whilst we have vig'rous Limbs, the hunted Field,
And shining Stage their various Joys will yield;
Insipid Age will come too soon, and damp
The lazy Flame of our expiring Lamp.
But Love's the Quintessence of all, my Friend,
Love, like the western Pine-apple, will blend
All Tastes delicious, Pleasures without End!
Think that the wish'd for Hour is near,
When we shall meet the willing Fair,
And whisper Love-tales in her glowing Ear:
Think that she hides, yet would not be conceal'd,
By luring Laughs designedly reveal'd:
A thousand Kisses welcome when we meet,
A thousand more to punish the Deceit;
Or in Revenge, in am'rous Play,
(Love's mystic Seal)
The Ring from her dear taper Finger steal;
She struggles hard, but struggles it away.
Her Smiles belye the Anger of her Words,
Which wound like Players with their pointless Swords.

ODE X. To Mercury.

1

Hermes polite! from Atlas sprung!
Powerful to tame the savage Hearts
Of new-born Man, with tuneful Tongue;
Their Bodies gracing too with manly Arts.

2

Thy Praise my grateful Muse shall sing,
Envoy of Jove to Earth and Hell;
The Parent of the Vocal String,
And sly in Wantonness of Heart to steal.

3

Unless his Herd he would restore,
Severely menacing the Child,
He dearly should the Theft deplore;
Stript of his Quiver too, Apollo smil'd.

4

By Thee, his Hector to regain,
From Troy, was wealthy Priam led,
Deceiv'd the Greeks, and cross'd the Plain,
With hostile Tents, and Fires, and Guards o'erspread.

5

Thou dost conduct unblemish'd Souls
To Seats of Bliss: Thy golden Rod
The flitting Troop of Ghosts controuls,
Grateful, Above, Below, to every God!

ODE XI. To Leuconoe.

1

Enquire not thou ('twere all in vain)
My dear Leuconoë,
What End the righteous Gods ordain,
Or to thyself or me.

2

Seek not in Magic or the Stars
To read Events to come;
Nor by imaginary Fears
Anticipate thy Doom.

3

Whether Jove grant one Winter more,
Or this should prove thy last,
Which whitens all the Tyrrhene Shore
With many an angry Blast;

4

Be wisely gay; cut off long Cares
From thy contracted Span,
Nor stretch thy busy Hopes and Fears
Beyond the Life of Man.

5

Ev'n while we speak, the Stream of Time
Rolls rapidly away;
Then seize the present, use thy Prime,
Nor trust another Day.

ODE XII. To Augustus.

1

What Man, what Hero shall inspire,
My Clio's Fife with sprightly Lays?
Or will she chuse to strike the Lyre
Devoted to the Gods in Hymns of Praise?

2

Whose Name shall sportive Echo sound,
The Heliconian Shades along,
Or hoary Hæmus' Hills around,
Where list'ning Oaks attended Orpheus' Song;

3

Taught by Calliopé to bind
The headlong Fury of the Floods,
To still the rude and boist'rous Wind,
And from their Roots to draw the crowding Woods.

4

Whom first, as wont, but Father Jove,
Who shifts the Seasons, shall I sing?
By Him all Creatures live and move;
Of Heav'n, and Earth, and Hell, the sovereign King.

5

To Jove, none like, or second none,
Now is, can be, or ever was—
Yet Pallas, for her Prowess known,
Possesses next to him the highest Place.

6

Nor Bacchus, nor the Virgin fam'd
For hunting down, with hostile Art,
The savage Race, shall pass unnam'd;
Nor Phœbus fear'd for his unerring Dart.

7

Alcides too, my Muse, resound;
And Leda's Sons: One the fleet Horse,
And rapid Car, with Conquest crown'd;
And one in Wrestling prov'd his matchless Force.

8

Soon as their happy Stars appear,
Hush'd is the Storm, the Waves subside,
The Clouds disperse, the Skies are clear,
And without Murmurs sleeps th'obedient Tide.

9

Shall Romulus succeed, my Lays
To grace; or Numa's peaceful State?
Thy Fasces, Tarquin, shall I raise?
Or envy dying Cato's glorious Fate?

10

The Scauri, let my grateful Muse,
And, Regulus, thy Faith proclaim;
And, of his mighty Soul profuse,
Let Paulus rival his great Victor's Fame.

11

By Poverty, with hardy Fare,
Fabricius and Camillus, train'd;
And Curius with his matted Hair,
Their small hereditary Farms maintain'd.

12

Thy Fame, Marcellus! grows with Years,
And, like a Plant unseen aspires;

And bright the Julian Star appears,
As Cynthia shines among the smaller Fires!

13

Father and Guardian of Mankind,
From Saturn sprung! to Thee is giv'n
By Fate, to guide great Cæsar's Mind,
Supreme on Earth!—Reign thou supreme in Heav'n!

14

Whether, in righteous War o'ercome,
Th'encroaching Parthians he repell;
The Sons of Ganges aw'd by Rome,
Or Seres, more remote, his Triumph swell:

15

Second to Thee alone, the World,
He justly rules; but Heav'n shall bend
Beneath thy Car; and Thunder hurl'd
By thy Right-hand, polluted Groves shall rend.

ODE XIII. To Lydia.

By George Jeffreys, Esq;

1

While Telephus's glowing Charms,
And Telephus's waxen Arms,
Fond Lydia, you commend,
My Colour varies like my Mind;
To Grief and Rage by Turns resign'd;
And Pangs my Vitals rend.

2

The Moisture, stealing down my Cheeks,
The slowly-wasting Fever speaks,
That dries my languid Veins;
Nor can my Spleen the Wine support,
That, spilt by him in drunken Sport,
Your snowy Shoulder stains.

3

I burn whene'er the biting Kiss
Has mark'd the furious Lover's Bliss:
Can such a Love be true,
Whose savage Raptures could annoy
The Lips which Venus bath'd for Joy
In her celestial Dew?

4

Thrice happy they, and more than thrice,
Whom Passion, free from Strife or Vice,
To chaste Endearments guides:
Unbroken Union is their Lot;
And no Resentments tear the Knot,
Which only Death divides.

ODE XIV.

[O ship, shall boisterous Waves again]

To the Commonwealth, under the Allegory of a Ship in Distress.

O ship, shall boisterous Waves again
Bear thee to Sea? What wouldst thou? O remain

In Port. Behold thy naked Side!
Scarce can thy Keel withstand th'imperious Tide,
Thy Sail-yards groan, while Southern Blasts
Around thee roar, and crack thy stubborn Masts.
Tho' of the Pontic Wood the Grace
And stately Daughter once, thy Name and Race
Are vain: See flitter'd every Sail,
And on no God thy Vows can now prevail.
What Mariner for Succour flies
To painted Sterns, when foaming Billows rise?
O late my Grief, and now my Care,
Lest thou become the Sport of Winds, beware;
With Caution steer; and shun the Seas,
Whose Surges lash the shining Cyclades.

J. D.

The Same Ode Imitated.

By I. H. B. Esq.

O ship! shall new Waves again bear thee to Sea?
Where, alas! art thou driving? Keep steady to Shore;

Thy Sides are left without an Oar,
And thy shaken Mast groans, to rude Tempests a Prey.
Thy Tackle all torn, can no longer endure
The Assaults of the Surge, that now triumphs and reigns.
None of thy Sails entire remains,
Nor a God to protect in another sad Hour.
Tho' thy Outside bespeaks thee of noble Descent,
The Forest's chief Pride, yet thy Race and thy Fame,
What are they but an empty Name?
Wise Mariners trust not to Gilding and Paint.
Beware then, lest thou float uncertain, again
The Sport of wild Winds; late my sorrowful Care,
And now my fondest Wish, beware
Of the changeable Shoals where the Rhine meets the Main.

1746.

ODE XV. The Prophecy of Nereus.

By a Lady.

From Sparta's hospitable Shore,
His Prize when faithless Paris bore,
While Guilt impatient crowds his Sail,
Prophetic Nereus checks the Gale,
By Force the flying Robber holds,
And thus the Wrath of Heaven unfolds:

‘In vain thy Fleet transports the Dame,
‘Whom injur'd Greece shall soon reclaim,
‘Prepar'd to break thy lawless Tye,
‘And Priam's ancient Realm destroy.
‘Behold the Troops, the foaming Steed,
‘To Labours doom'd, and doom'd to bleed!
‘See! Victim to thy lewd Desires,
‘Thy Country blaze with funeral Fires!
‘See! Pallas eager to engage,
‘Prepares her Car and martial Rage:

‘She waves her Ægis, nods her Plumes,
‘And all the Pomp of War assumes!
‘In vain, devoted to thy Side,
‘Shall Cytherea swell thy Pride;
‘In vain thy graceful Locks express
‘The studied Elegance of Dress;
‘Thy languid Harp, with amorous Air,
‘In vain shall charm the list'ning Fair;
‘The Palace screen thy conscious Heart
‘In vain, against the Cretan Dart,
‘And Ajax, nimble to pursue.
‘What tho', conceal'd from public View,
‘The Chamber guards thy nicer Ear
‘From all the horrid Din of War;
‘At length, Adulterer! fall thou must,
‘And trail those beauteous Locks in Dust!
‘See! Author of thy Country's Fate,
‘Ulysses, practis'd in Deceit.
‘Behold the hoary Pylian Sage,
‘Against her forfeit Towers engage.
‘Teucer and Sthenelus unite
‘With various Skill, in various Fight.

‘Tydides, greater than his Sire,
‘To find thee, burns with martial Fire.
‘But as a grazing Stag, who spies
‘The distant Wolf, with Terror flies;
‘So shalt thou fly, with panting Breath,
‘And falt'ring Limbs, th'Approach of Death.
‘Where is thy boasted Courage? Where
‘Thy Promise plighted to the Fair?
‘Tho' fierce Achilles' sullen Hate
‘Awhile protracts the City's Fate,
‘Heav'n shall its righteous Doom require,
‘And Troy in Grecian Flames expire!’

The Same Ode Imitated.

[When Gallia's Fleet young Stuart bore]

When Gallia's Fleet young Stuart bore,
To Scotland's hospitable Shore,
As thro' Biscaya's stormy Bay,
Th'impatient Warrior urg'd his Way,
Stern Neptune, Britain's Guardian God,
Swift-rising from the troubled Flood,
Bad the hoarse Winds their Tumult cease,
And hush'd the angry Waves to Peace,
Whilst thus, with harsh prophetic Truth,
He warn'd the bold advent'rous Youth.

‘With adverse Winds thou brav'st in vain
‘These Seas, a fancy'd Crown to gain,

‘Perfidious is the Wind and Sea,
‘But greater Gallia's Perfidy,
‘Ev'n tho', to fix thee on the Throne,
‘Her Troops and Navy were thy own,
‘Ere, by that Navy wafted o'er,
‘Those Troops could gain the British Shore,
‘What Ships, what Legions would be lost,
‘For watchful Vernon guards the Coast?

‘Ev'n now the dreaded Lion rears
‘Her hostile Flag, and Brett appears,
‘Crown'd with a Wreath, bestow'd by Me
‘In spicy India's Southern Sea.
‘Undaunted by superior Force,
‘He strait shall stop thy Convoy's Course,
‘And soon those Thunders (felt by Spain),
‘With Gallic Blood shall dye the Main;
‘Till back to Brest the baffled Crew,
‘With splinter'd Masts their Course pursue,
‘And leave thee to assert thy Throne,
‘Unarm'd, unguarded, and alone.

‘True, when thou gain'st a Northern Port,
‘The neighb'ring Clans shall all resort,
‘With Fifes their bonny Charles to greet,
‘And lay their Targets at thy Feet.

‘Yet tho, with wide-unfolded Gates,
‘Edina thy Arrival waits,
‘No Bribes shall win, no Threats shall wrest
‘The Citadel from hoary Guest:
‘And soon from Sloth shall England wake,
‘And her luxurious Fetters break.
‘When mitred York dissolves the Charm,
‘See! all the Nation takes th'Alarm,
‘And Prelates preach, and Nobles arm.

‘In vain, to please the Scottish Fair,
‘Plad Ribbons braid thy beauteous Hair;
‘In vain, with Caledonian Grace,
‘An azure Bonnet shades thy Face;
‘With Target arm'd, and Breadth of Sword,
‘In vain thou foremost tempt'st the Ford,
‘And dar'st each Night in Tents defy
‘The Rigours of a freezing Sky.
‘Tho' Conquest point to Preston's Mead,
‘Tho' Cope shall fly, and Gardner bleed,
‘Yet hardy Troops and Chiefs remain,
‘To Battle train'd on Flandria's Plain:
‘See Crawford, Loudon, Huske, and Bland,
‘Surrounded by a veteran Band,

‘And Blakeney, with Experience fraught,
‘At Carthagena dearly bought.
‘What tho' the Hope of Plunder draws
‘Some needy Nobles to thy Cause;
‘Tho' to thy Camp, with Vengeance vow'd,
‘The Slaves of wily Lovat crowd;
‘And in thy Host, with downcast Mien,
‘Kilmarnock's graceful Form is seen;
‘No Tyes of Blood from Brunswick's Side
‘Young Boyde and Ancram can divide;
‘The Lowlands still thy Course oppose,
‘And half the Nation are thy Foes.

‘But now, to quench Rebellion's Flame,
‘And emulate his Father's Fame,
‘To barren Heaths and wintry Skies,
‘From polish'd Courts, see! William flies;
‘On snow-clad Hills his Standard rears;
‘And soon Culloden's Plain appears.

‘O! with what Grief shalt thou survey
‘The Ruin of that dreadful Day,
‘When Slaughter uncontroul'd shall reign,
‘And proudly stride o'er thousands slain;
‘When, sav'd for a severer Death,
‘Thy Peers on Scaffolds yield their Breath,

‘And Desolation's Talons seize
‘Their Fields and forfeit Villages.

‘Mean while, o'er many a craggy Height,
‘Thou, hapless Youth! shalt speed thy Flight;
‘For Safety forc'd to lay aside
‘Thy martial Garb and manly Pride,
‘And o'er the Friths and Mountains pass,
‘In Semblance of an Highland Lass.

‘At length, when all thy Dangers o'er,
‘Thou safely gain'st that peaceful Shore,
‘Where rapid Rhone, with boisterous Waves,
‘The Vines of mild Avignon laves,
‘There shalt thou court monastic Ease,
‘And tempt no more the faithless Seas;
‘By Foes repuls'd, by Friends betray'd,
‘Of Britain much, of Gallia more afraid.’

J. D.

ODE XVI. To Tyndaris, Whom he had insulted in Iämbic Verse.

Nymph! of a beauteous Mother born,
Whom still superior Charms adorn,
My slanderous Verses, as you please,
Destroy; by Flames, or in the Seas.
Nor Phœbus could his Prophets fire,
Nor Bacchus to Extremes so dire,
Nor Corybantian Cymbals wound
The Ear with such a clattering Sound,
As baleful Rage, which neither Flame,
Nor Steel, nor Tempest, can reclaim;
And Jove, its Madness to restrain,
Would hurl his triple Bolt in vain.

'Tis said, when Japhet's Son began
To mould the Clay, and fashion Man,

He stole from every Beast a Part,
And fix'd the Lion in his Heart.
From Rage the tragic Ills arose,
That crush'd Thyestes; hence the Woes
Of Cities with the Ground laid ev'n,
And Plough-shares o'er their Ruins driv'n
Then curb your Anger: Heat of Youth
(I now with Shame confess the Truth)
Prompted alone my guilty Muse
In rapid Numbers to abuse
Your blameless Name—Forgiv'n by You,
I will a softer Theme pursue.

ODE XVII. To the Same.

1

Swift-footed Faunus often deigns
To quit Arcadia's fruitful Plains;
And for my Sabine Bow'rs
His own Lycæum he neglects,
And here my tender Kids protects
From Heat and stormy Show'rs.

2

For secret Shrubs and thymy Food,
The Dams securely search the Wood,
Nor fear the Viper's Sting:
No prowling Wolves alarm the Flocks,
While with his Pipe the sloping Rocks
And vocal Valleys ring.

3

The Gods still guard me; they approve
My blameless Piety, and love

My Muse's grateful Strain:
Here Plenty's liberal Horn shall pour
For Tyndaris a various Show'r
Of Fruits, with every Grain.

4

Here, while a Valley's cool Retreat
From the fierce Dog-star's raging Heat
Thy beauteous Form shall skreen,
Thou to the Teïan Lyre shalt sing
Ulysses, of dire Griefs the Spring
To Circé, and his Queen.

5

Here, where the flaunting Boughs entwine,
Regale on harmless Lesbian Wine;
Nor Mars shall e'er intrude
To spoil our Mirth with frantic Noise,
And chase mild Bacchus' temperate Joys
With Brawls and Quarrels rude.

6

Free from Alarms, thou need'st not fear
To fire with jealous Fury here
Impatient Cyrus' Breast:

Nor shall the Savage from thy Hair
The flowery Chaplet snatch, or tear
Thy unoffending Vest.

J. D.

ODE XVIII. To Varus.

No Plant, like the Vine, will on Tibur's mild Soil
Repay my dear Varus, and crown all his Toil.
How lifeless the Dry and the Sober appear!
'Tis Wine, Wine alone, that can drown every Care.

Chear'd by Wine, who at Want or at Warfare inveighs?
Who is silent in Venus' or Bacchus's Praise?
But let Prudence restrain you; and timely be taught
By the Feasts of the Centaurs and Lapithæ, fraught
With Fury and Slaughter, ne'er rashly to slide
O'er the Limits, wihch Mirth from Intemperance divide.
Blind Passion reigns ever, such Revels among;
Lust, the Arbiter only of Right and of Wrong.
Unbidden I venture not, white-vested God,
To brandish profanely thy Ivy-crown'd Rod;
Nor unfaithfully e'er to the Day-light reveal
The mystical Rites, which thy Branches conceal.
Restrain thy Horn, Timbrels, and Bacchanal Crew,
Whom Self-love and Vanity ever pursue,
With Crests high-exalted; and, clearer than Glass,
Leaky Faith, like a Sieve, letting every thing pass.

J. D.

ODE XIX. An Invocation to Venus.

Paraphrased by William Congreve, Esq.

1.

The Tyrant Queen of soft Desires,
With the resistless Aid of sprightly Wine
And wanton Ease, conspires
To make my Heart its Peace resign,
And re-admit Love's long-rejected Fires.
For beauteous Glycera I burn;
The Flames so long repell'd, with double Force return:
Matchless her Face appears, and shines more bright
Than polish'd Marble, when reflecting Light.
Her very Coyness warms;
And with a grateful Sullenness she charms:
Each Look darts forth a thousand Rays,
Whose Lustre an unwary Sight betrays:
My Eye-balls swim, and I grow giddy while I gaze.

2.

She comes! she comes! She rushes in my Veins!
At once all Venus enters, and at large she reigns!
Cyprus no more with her Abode is blest;
I am her Palace, and her Throne my Breast.
Of savage Scythian Arms no more I write,
Or Parthian Archers, who in flying fight,
And make rough War their Sport.
Such idle Themes no more shall move,
Nor any thing but what's of high Import;
And what's of high Import but Love?
Vervain, and Gums, and the green Turf prepare:
With Wine of two Years old your Cups be fill'd:
After our Sacrifice and Pray'r,
The Goddess may incline her Heart to yield.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

1

Mæcenas! still content to shine
Among the Knights, expect not at my Board
A copious Bowl, or better Wine
Than what my native Sabine Hills afford.

2

Seal'd by myself, my Cask began
To mellow, when the Pit so loudly crown'd
Your Merit, that Mount Vatican,
And Tyber's sportful Echo caught the Sound.

3

In your rich Jars the racy Juice
Of every costly Grape refines:
My Cups no Tribute can produce
Or from the Formian or Falernian Vines.

ODE XXI. An Hymn to Apollo and Diana.

Choir of Youths.
Ye blooming Virgins! sing Diana's Praise.

Choir of Virgins.
Your Voice, ye Boys! to graceful Phœbus raise.

The Two Choirs.
Let fair Latona be our Theme,
The darling Choice of Jove supreme.

Choir of Youths.
Ye Maids! chaste Cynthia sing, in silver Floods
Who loves to bathe, and haunts the shady Woods;
The Woods, that Algidus and Cragus crown,
And Erymanthus' lofty Head imbrown!

Choir of Virgins.
Ye noble Youths! extoll, in equal Strains,
Delicious Tempe's ever-verdant Plains:
Fair Delos sing, whence great Apollo sprung,
The Harp and Quiver on his Shoulder hung.

DUETTO.

Virgins.
He, by your Pray'rs,

Boys.
And She by yours, o'ercome,

Both.
On Britons and on Parthians, Foes of Rome,
Shall turn from Cæsar and his People far,
The Scourge of Famine, Pestilence, and War.

ODE XXII. To Aristius Fuscus.

By S. J.

The Man, my Friend, whose conscious Heart
With Virtue's sacred Ardour glows,
Nor taints with Death th'envenom'd Dart,
Nor needs the Guard of Moorish Bows.

O'er icy Caucasus he treads,
Or torrid Afric's faithless Sands,
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads
His liquid Wealth thro' barbarous Lands.

For while in Sabine Forests, charm'd
By Lalagé, too far I stray'd,
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A furious Wolf approach'd, and fled.

No Beast more dreadful ever stain'd
Apulia's spacious Wilds with Gore;
No Beast more fierce Numidia's Land,
The Lion's thirsty Parent, bore.

Place me where no soft Summer Gale
Among the quivering Branches sighs,
Where Clouds, condens'd, for ever veil
With horrid Gloom the frowning Skies:

Place me beneath the burning Zone,
A Clime deny'd to human Race;
My Flame for Lalagé I'll own;
Her Voice and Smiles my Song shall grace.

The Same Ode Paraphrased. By John Hughes, Esq;

[Hence, slavish Fear! thy Stygian Wings display]

1.

Hence, slavish Fear! thy Stygian Wings display:
Thou ugly Fiend of Hell, away!
Wrapp'd in thick Clouds, and Shades of Night,
To conscious Souls direct thy Flight;
There brood on Guilt; fix there a loath'd Embrace,
And propagate vain Terrors, Frights,
Dreams, Goblins, and imagin'd Sprights,
Thy visionary Tribe, thy black and monstrous Race!
Go, haunt the Slave that stains his Hands in Gore,
Possess the perjur'd Mind, and rack the Usurer more
Than his Oppression did the Poor before.

2.

Vainly, ye feeble Wretches, you prepare
The glittering Forgery of War;
The poison'd Shaft, the Parthian Bow, and Spear,
Like that the warlike Moor is wont to wield,
Which, pois'd and guided from his Ear,
He hurls impetuous thro' the Field;
In vain you lace the Helm, and heave in vain the Shield;
He's only safe, whose Armour of Defence
Is adamantine Innocence.

3.

If o'er the steepy Alps he go,
Vast Mountains of eternal Snow,
Or where fam'd Ganges and Hydaspes flow;
If o'er parch'd Lybia's desart Land,
Where, threatening from afar,
Th'affrighted Traveller
Encounters moving Hills of Sand:
No Sense of Danger can disturb his Rest,
He fears no human Face, nor savage Beast;
Impenetrable Courage steels his manly Breast.

4.

Thus, late within the Sabine Grove,
While, free from Care, and full of Love,

I raise my tuneful Voice, and stray,
Regardless of myself and Way,
A grizly Wolf, with glaring Eye,
View'd me unarm'd, yet pass'd unhurtful by.
A fiercer Monster ne'er, in Quest of Food,
Apulian Forests did molest;
Numidia never saw a more prodigious Beast;
Numidia, Mother of the tawny Brood,
Where the stern Lion shakes his knotted Mane,
And roars aloud for Prey, and scours the spacious Plain.

5.

Place me where no soft Breeze of Summer Wind
Did e'er the stiffen'd Soil unbind,
Where no refreshing Warmth e'er durst invade,
But Winter holds his unmolested Seat,
In all his hoary Robes array'd,
And rattling Storms of Hail, and noisy Tempests beat.
Place me beneath the scorching Blaze
Of the fierce Sun's immediate Rays,
Where House or Cottage ne'er were seen,
Nor rooted Plant, nor Tree, nor springing Green,

Yet, lovely Lalagé, my generous Flame
Shall ne'er expire; I'll boldly sing of thee,
Charm'd with the Music of thy Name,
And guarded by the Gods of Love and Poetry.

ODE XXIII. To Cloe.

By J. C.

1

Thou fly'st me, like the tripping Hind
Her fearful Dam pursuing
O'er devious Hills: The Woods, the Wind,
The quivering Bushes threaten Ruin.

2

If vernal Gales but gently breathe
Amid the thorny Brake;
Or if green Lizzards, underneath,
Among the Boughs a Rustling make,

3

Strait pit-a-pat's its little Heart;
Its trembling Limbs keep Measure:
But, Cloë, why this frantic Start,
For Injury mistaking Pleasure?

4

No Tyger, nor a Lion, I;
Then cease thy Mother's Steps to trace,
Nor coyly from thy Horace fly,
Now ripe the Bridal Bed to grace.

ODE XXIV. To Virgil.

On the Death of Quintilius Varus.

What Shame, what Bounds can Sorrow know,
While Tears for such a Friend so justly flow?
Melpomené! my Song inspire,
Who shar'st from Jove the melting Voice and Lyre.

Lies then Quintilius wrapt in Night;
And have eternal Slumbers clos'd his Sight?
O! when shall Truth and Modesty,
And each domestic Grace, his Equal see?
Lamented by his Friends he died;
But Virgil's Grief supplies the fullest Tide.
Could You inspire the magic Song
Like Orpheus, who drew list'ning Oaks along;
Or sing more sweetly o'er his Urn,
Yet would not to his Ashes Life return!
When Mercury, with dreaded Wand,
Has driv'n the Shade to join the sable Band,
To move the God our Pray'rs are vain;
For ever lock'd the Gates of Death remain.
Tho' hard; her Balm let Patience pour,
To mollify the Wound she cannot cure.

ODE XXV. To Lydia.

1

Now the gay Tribe of wanton Youths
Less frequently thy Windows tap,
Nor break thy Rest; and thy still Door
Cleaves to the Threshold;

2

Which once was wont with Ease to move
The Hinge. Now less and less is heard;
‘While Lydia sleeps the live-long Night,
‘Wakeful I languish.’

3

Now in thy Turn, grown old, thou mourn'st
Thy Lovers lost; loosely array'd
Ply'st in dark Allies, whilst the North
Whistles around thee;

4

And burning Love, and loathsom Lust,
Such as the madding Fillies fires,

Still in thy canker'd Liver rage;
Vainly repining,

5

That vigorous Youth, with Ivy green
Delighted, and with Myrtle Wreaths,
The wither'd Herbs to Hebrus doom,
Friend of the Winter.

ODE XXVI. To the Muse.

Lov'd by the Muses, to the Wind
Be all my Griefs and Fears resign'd,
To drown them in the Cretan Main;
Quite careless I, what Tyrants reign;
Or what beneath the Northern Sphere
Excites the Parthian Monarch's Fear.

Rejoicing in th'untasted Spring,
Hither thy sunny Garlands bring,
O Muse! and choicest Fragrance shed
Around my much-lov'd Lamia's Head.
No Honour can my Strains impart,
Unless thy Breathings warm my Heart.
Thee it becomes, and all the Choir,
For Him to string the Lesbian Lyre;
And to immortalize, in Lays
Divinely new, his worthy Praise!

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Let Fortune and the Muse be kind]

Inscribed to the Rev. Mr. Dyer.

Let Fortune and the Muse be kind,
And smile upon my Strain,
I give my Sorrows to the Wind,
Or bid old Medway bear them to the Main.

Let Armies march, or Squadrons sail,
No Gallic Threats I fear,
Let me but range this flowery Vale,
And catch the Lowing of that distant Steer.

Or thro' yon Meadow let me stray,
With new-shorn Fleeces white,
And meditate the rural Lay
Of him, who sung on Grongar's woodland Height.

Round him Rome's Genius, rouz'd from Sleep,
Has bid that Ivy bloom,
Which decks some Temple's mouldring Heap,
Or clings with clasping Arms to Virgil's Tomb.

Those Honours which to Greece's Bard
Were once by Plato shown,
Shall Britain give, and soon reward,
Her Poet's Labours with a woollen Crown.

1756.

J. D.

ODE XXVII. To his Companions.

1

With Glasses form'd for jovial Joy,
Let rough untutor'd Thracians fight;
Far hence remove that barbarous Rite;
Nor modest Bacchus with your Brawls annoy.

2

My Friends, your impious Clamours cease;
Rage, and the glittering Persian Sword,
But ill with Lamps and Wine accord—
Let every Man resume his former Place.

3

Expect you that the Glass go round?
Then let Megilla's Brother tell,
By what enchanting Maid he fell,
And from whose Eyes receiv'd his happy Wound.

4

Do you this easy Task decline?
Whatever Nymph your Bosom tames,
You glow with no ignoble Flames—
I swear then I'll not taste this heady Wine.

5

Whoe'er she be, to my safe Ear
The Secret trust.—Ah wretched Youth!
How wide I wander'd from the Truth,
Thoughtless the Name of such a Jilt to hear.

6

What Sorceress with Thessalian Charms,
What magic Art, or heavenly Pow'r,
Can thy lost Liberty restore,
And free thee from this Monster's fatal Arms?

ODE XXVIII. A Dialogue between the Ghost of Archytas and a Mariner.

Mariner.
Tho' skill'd to measure Sea and Land,
And to compute th'unnumber'd Grains of Sand;
Now scanty Dust is scatter'd o'er
Thy Limbs, Archytas, on Apulia's Shore;
Nor could, to travel thro' the Sky,
And grasp the Pole, avail thee, doom'd to die!

Archytas.
E'en Pelops' mighty Father died,
Who feasted Gods, and was to Gods ally'd:
Tithonus died, Aurora's Care;
Tho' borne by her thro' pathless Tracks of Air:
And the same Fate did Minos prove,
Who shar'd the Counsels of immortal Jove.
The Realms below again restrain
Pythagoras, tho' vent'rous to maintain,

By the known Shield Euphorbus bore
At Ilium's Siege, that he had liv'd before,
And yielded to the Grave alone
His Skin and Nerves; a Sage, whom You will own
In Truth and Nature deeply read.
But All the gloomy Paths of Death must tread;
Life's little Day in endless Night
Must close. The Furies savage Mars delight
With the dire Show of Soldiers slain;
While Sailors perish in the greedy Main.
Of Old and Young, see! Thousands die;
No Head from cruel Proserpine can fly.
Me, too, black Auster's stormy Breath,
Orion setting, 'whelm'd with watry Death.
But on my Bones and naked Head,
O! fail not thou, some floating Sand to spread;
So may the Tempest spare the Floods,
And waste its Fury on Apulian Woods!
And righteous Jove, and Ocean's Power,
Who watchful guards Tarentum's sacred Tower,
Securely from each foreign Shore,
With large Increase convey thy costly Store.
Perhaps thou wilt not dread a Crime,
For which thy Sons shall smart in future Time:

But may the Gods retort on Thee,
By the same Pains, thy proud Contempt of Me!
My Curse will reach the heavenly Throne;
This flagrant Crime no Victims shall atone.
Tho' Commerce beckons thee away,
(This pious Care will cause no long Delay),
Three times the Dust around me throw,
And Winds propitious on thy Sails shall blow!

J. D

104

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Say, dearest Villiers, poor departed Friend, ]

By Matthew Prior, Esq;

Inscribed to the Memory of the Hon. Colonel George Villiers, drowned in the River Piava, in the Country of Friuli.

Say, dearest Villiers, poor departed Friend,
Since fleeting Life thus suddenly must end;
Say, what did all thy busy Hopes avail,
That anxious thou from Pole to Pole didst sail;
Ere on thy Chin the springing Beard began
To spread a doubtful Down, and promise Man?
What profited thy Thoughts, and Toils, and Cares,
In Vigour more confirm'd, and riper Years?

105

To wake ere Morning-dawn to loud Alarms;
And march till Close of Night in heavy Arms?
To scorn the Summer Suns and Winter Snows;
And search thro' every Clime thy Country's Foes?
That thou might'st Fortune to thy Side engage;
That gentle Peace might quell Bellona's Rage,
And Anna's Bounty crown her Soldier's hoary Age?

In vain we think that free-will'd Man has Power,
To hasten or protract th'appointed Hour.
Our Term of Life depends not on our Deed;
Before our Birth our Funeral was decreed.
Nor aw'd by Foresight, nor misled by Chance,
Imperious Death directs his Ebon Lance,
Peoples great Henry's Tombs, and leads up Holbein's Dance.

Alike must every State and every Age
Sustain the universal Tyrant's Rage:
For neither William's Power, nor Mary's Charms,
Could or repell, or pacify his Arms.
Young Churchill fell, as Life began to bloom;
And Bradford's trembling Age expects the Tomb.
Wisdom and Eloquence in vain would plead
One Moment's Respite for the learned Head.
Judges of Writings and of Men have died;
Mæcenas, Sackville, Socrates, and Hyde;

106

And in their various Turns the Sons must tread
Those gloomy Journeys, which their Sires have led.

The ancient Sage, who did so long maintain,
That Bodies die, but Souls return again,
With all the Births and Deaths he had in Store,
Went out Pythagoras, and came no more.
And modern Asgill, whose capricious Thought
Is yet with Stores of wilder Notions fraught;
Too soon convinc'd, shall yield that fleeting Breath,
Which play'd so idly with the Darts of Death.

Some from the stranded Vessel force their Way;
Fearful of Fate, they meet it in the Sea:
Some, who escape the Fury of the Wave,
Sicken on Earth, and sink into a Grave.
In Journeys, or at home; in War or Peace;
By Hardships Many, Many fall by Ease.
Each changing Season does its Poison bring;
Rheums chill the Winter, Agues blast the Spring;
Wet, Dry, Cold, Hot, at the appointed Hour,
All act subservient to the Tyrant's Power;
And, when obedient Nature knows his Will,
A Fly, a Grape-stone, or a Hair can kill,

For restless Proserpine for ever treads,
In Paths unseen, o'er our devoted Heads;

107

And, on the spacious Land, and liquid Main,
Spreads slow Disease, or darts afflictive Pain;
Variety of Deaths confirms her endless Reign.

On curs'd Piava's Banks the Goddess stood;
Show'd her dire Warrant to the rising Flood;
When, whom I long must love, and long must mourn,
With fatal Speed was urging his Return;
In his dear Country to disperse his Care,
And arm himself by Rest for future War;
To chide his anxious Friends' officious Fears,
And promise to their Joys his elder Years.

O destin'd Head, and O severe Decree!
Nor native Country thou, nor Friend shalt see;
Nor War hast thou to wage, nor Year to come;
Impending Death is thine, and instant Doom.

Hark! the imperious Goddess is obey'd;
Winds murmur, Snows descend, and Waters spread:
O Kinsman, Friend!—O! vain are all the Cries
Of human Voice, strong Destiny replies;
Weep you on Earth; for he shall sleep below:
Thence none return; and thither all must go.

Whoe'er thou art, whom Choice or Business leads
To this sad River, or the neighbouring Meads;

108

If thou may'st happen on the dreary Shores
To find the Object which this Verse deplores;
Cleanse the pale Corps, with a religious Hand,
From the polluting Weed and common Sand;
Lay the dead Hero graceful in a Grave,
The only Honour he can now receive;
And fragrant Mould upon his Body throw,
And plant the Warrior Laurel o'er his Brow:
Light lie the Earth, and flourish green the Bough!

So may just Heaven secure thy future Life
From foreign Dangers, and domestic Strife:
And when th'infernal Judge's dismal Power
From the dark Urn shall throw Thy destin'd Hour;
When yielding to the Sentence, breathless Thou
And pale shalt lie, as what thou buriest now;
May some kind Friend the piteous Object see,
And equal Rites perform to that, which once was Thee!

1703.

109

ODE XXIX. To Iccius, a Philosopher.

Does then my Iccius' craving Breast
Envy the Wealth of Araby the blest;
And will he boldly take the Field
Against Sabæa's King, untaught to yield;
With fix'd Resolve the dreadful Mede,
His Slave, in Chains triumphantly to lead.
What Virgin shall Your Will obey,
Her Lover slain, and own Your sovereign Sway?
What courtly Boy, with scented Hair,
Shall at Your Board the brimming Goblet bear,
Skilful, from his paternal Bow,
With Indian Arrow to transfix the Foe?

110

Now Rivers, sure, may backward bend,
And Tyber to his Fountain-head ascend;
Since You an Equipage prepare,
(Who promis'd better Things) and seek the War;
Your Plato and Panætius yield,
(So dearly bought) to grasp th'Iberian Shield.

111

The Same Ode Imitated.

[And has my Friend, uncheck'd by Fear]

To the Hon. W. H.

And has my Friend, uncheck'd by Fear,
With Braddock sail'd, a Volunteer,
And cross'd th'Atlantic Ocean;
Resolv'd to chase th'encroaching Gaul,
And on the Ohio's Banks to fall,
Or rise to quick Promotion!

What plume-crown'd Sachem, great in Arms,
What Nymph, renown'd for sable Charms,
Is Prisoner in your Tent?
How oft War's Kettle have you boil'd?
What rich Plantations have you spoil'd?
What Scalps to England sent?

What captive Youth behind your Chair
At Dinner waits, or trims your Hair;
Taught from his earliest Years
To speed the Arrow from the Bow;
Or, at the Bear, or British Foe,
To launch unerring Spears?

112

Sure now Ontario's boisterous Lake
His ancient Channel may forsake;
Or Niagara's Fall
Stop short; or solemn Leagues may bind
(Much stranger still!) th'ambitious Mind
Of Treaty-breaking Gaul;

Since You, my Friend, have thus elop'd,
And, tho' some rich Cathedral hop'd
To call you soon her Own,
Have chang'd the College for the Field,
To Bland made Clarke and Barrow yield,
And to the Sword the Gown.

1755.

J. D.

113

ODE XXX. To Venus.

1

O Venus! whose propitious Care
Thy Cnidus and thy Paphos share,
Forsake thy favour'd Cyprian Plain,
To visit now the decent Fane
Of Glycera; whose Frankincense invites,
High-pil'd, thy Presence at her humble Rites.

2

Each Grace attending on her Queen,
Array'd in flowing Robes, be seen;
And let the Nymphs approach with thee,
Thy glowing Boy and Mercury,
With Youth's blithe Goddess, ever wont to prove
Joyless and rude, if unrefin'd by Love.

114

The Same Ode Imitated In the Person of General Ch---ll.

By Dr. Broxholm.

1

O Venus! Joy of Men and Gods,
Forsake, for once, thy blest Abodes,
And deign to visit my Land;
Quit Paphos and the Cyprian Isle,
On thy fond Votary kindly smile,
And come to my Duck Island.

2

Thee, Goddess, Thee, my Prayers invoke;
To Thee alone my Altars smoke;

115

O treat me not with Rigour:
Thy wanton Son bring with thee too,
My dying Embers to renew,
And give me back my Vigour.

3

Bring, too, the Graces to my Arms,
Girls that are prodigal of Charms,
Of every Favour lavish:
Yielding and melting let them be;
Consider I am sixty-three,
And that's no Age to ravish.

4

Let jocund Health attend thy Train,
Much wanted by thy crazy Swain;
And, gentle Venus, pr'ythee,
To crown thy Gifts, and ease my Pain,
(Since Ward has labour'd long in vain)
Let Mercury come with thee.

116

ODE XXXI. To Apollo.

What Boon, at Phœbus' hallow'd Shrine,
Requires his Bard, while this Year's Wine
He pours from Chargers? Not the Grain,
Enriching fair Sardinia's Plain;
Nor asks he for the Herds that feed
In hot Calabria's fertile Mead;
For Gold and Indian Ivory;
Nor for the grateful Fields that lie
Where Liris, with his silent Waves,
(Slow-gliding Stream!) the Border laves.
Let others prune Calenian Vines,
And the rich Merchant drink his Wines
In golden Cups; for Syrian Ware
Purchas'd: For he, three times a Year,
Or four, sails o'er th'Atlantic Flood,
Unhurt and dear to every God!
Mallows I taste, and Succhory;
And Olives are a Feast to Me!—

117

Offspring of Jove! I ask no more
Than to enjoy my present Store;
With Body sound, and Mind entire,
Decent in Age to wake the Lyre!

118

ODE XXXII. To his Harp.

1

If the soft Verse, and warbling Strain,
Which I with Thee have careless play'd,
O Harp! beneath the chequer'd Shade,
May this whole Year, and many more remain;

2

To Latian Song adapt thy Sound,
First by the tuneful Lesbian taught,
In Battle, tho' he fearless fought,
Or moor'd the storm-toss'd Vessel to the Ground:

119

3

To Bacchus and the Muses' Choir;
To Venus, and the Boy that flies
Close by her Side, and Lycus' Eyes
Black as his Hair, he tun'd the various Lyre.

4

O Grace of Phœbus! Ease of Care!
Sweet Shell! at the celestial Feast
Of Jove himself a welcome Guest,
Whene'er I call, attend thy Poet's Prayer!

J. D.

ODE XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

1

Indulge not thus thy endless Grief
In Elegiac Strain;
No more, that Glycera to thine
Prefers a younger Lover's Arms, complain.

120

2

For Cyrus, see! Lycoris, grac'd
With slender Forehead, burns;
For Pholoë he; but Goats shall join
With savage Wolves, ere she his Love returns.

3

So Venus wills; who oft, beneath
Her brazen Yoke, unites
Unequal Forms, unequal Minds,
And in their Torture cruelly delights.

4

I, tho' a Maid of noble Birth
Address'd me, yet adore
Fair low-born Myrtalé, more fierce
Than Waves that dash the rough Calabrian Shore.

J. D.

121

ODE XXXIV.

[Misled before by Wisdom vain]

Misled before by Wisdom vain,
I rarely visited the Fane,
Devious from Truth!—But now, by Force,
Must shift my Sails, and steer another Course.
Since Jove himself, the Sire of Day,
Who darts, by Nature's Law, his Ray
From opening Clouds, his Steeds has driven,
And rolling Car, thro' Tracts of azure Heaven.
Hence the brute Earth, and all her Floods,
Th'astonish'd Manes' dread Abodes,

122

And mighty Atlas' utmost Bound,
Trembled!—The God is able to confound
The purple Pride of regal Might,
And lift the Low to Honour's Height:
Fortune with loud-clapp'd Wings tore down
From thence; and here delights to place the Crown!

124

ODE XXXV. To Fortune.

O goddess! whose propitious Sway
Thy Antium's favourite Sons obey;
Whose Voice from Depth of Woe recalls
The Wretch; and Triumphs turns to Funerals:

From Thee, rich Crops the needy Swain
Implores: Thee, Sovereign of the Main,
The Mariner invokes, who braves,
In a Bithynian Bark, the Cretan Waves:

Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near,
And unrelenting Dacians, fear:
The warlike Sons of Italy;
Cities, and Realms, and Empires, worship Thee.

Mothers of barbarous Monarchs dread,
And purple Tyrants, lest thou tread
With spurning Foot, and scatter round
The sculptur'd Column on th'encumber'd Ground;

125

And lest the fickle Crowd should break
Their Bonds; and with loud Clamours wake
The Peaceful, to assert their Right
By Force of Arms, and quell usurping Might.

Ruthless Necessity prepares
The Way for Thee; and ever bears
Huge Nails, in her strong Hands of Brass,
The Wedge, the Hook, and Lead's hot molten Mass.

Thee Hope, and white-rob'd Faith, adore,
So rarely found!—She, when no more
Thou smil'st, attends the fallen Great,
Stript of his gay Attire and stately Seat.

But venal Crowds and Harlots fly:
And, if the flowing Casks are dry,
When to the Dregs the Wine they drink,
From Friendship's Yoke the false Associates shrink.

Thy Aid for Cæsar Rome implores;
Conduct him safe to Britain's Shores,
The Limits of the World; and lead
Our new-rais'd Bands against the trembling Mede!

Alas! we mourn our Crimes, our Scars,
And Brethren slain in Civil Wars:

126

How oft have Roman Youth embru'd
Their savage Hands in Streams of social Blood!

What has this Iron Age not dar'd?
What Gods rever'd? what Altars spar'd?
O! point again the blunted Steel,
And let the Massagete our Vengeance feel!

J. D.

129

ODE XXXVI. On the Return of Numida from Spain.

1

'Tis just, 'tis joyful, now to pay
To each auspicious guardian God
Of Numida, the Heifer's votive Blood;
With Frankincense, and many a tuneful Lay.

130

2

He, from Iberia's farthest Shore
Return'd, of all his lov'd Compeers
Clasps Lamia most, with whom his youthful Years
He spent, and first the Gown of Manhood wore.

3

Then mark this happy Day with White!
And Casks of generous Liquor bring;
Advancing, ceaseless, in a jovial Ring,
Beat quick the Ground, and form the Salian Rite.

4

Bassus shall Damalis o'ercome,
And drain the Goblet at a Draught:
To chear the Feast be long-liv'd Parsley brought,
Join'd with the Rose and Lilly's transient Bloom.

5

Now all the Youths, inflam'd with Wine,
With gloating Eyes your Mistress view;
But Damalis, to her new Lover true,
Hangs on his Neck, as Ivy clasps the Vine.

J. D.

131

ODE XXXVII. Occasioned by the Sea-fight near Actium,

In which Antony and Cleopatra were defeated by Augustus.

Now is the Time the Bowl to drain;
The Time to dance upon the Plain;
The Statues of the Gods to place
On Pallets, and with holy Banquets grace!

132

For impious had it been before,
To broach our rich Cæcubian Store,
While the mad Queen, with Pride elate,
Menac'd the Capitol and Roman State:

Attended by th'enervate Band
Of hapless Youths, by Steel unmann'd,
Unbounded Empire was her Scope,
Grasping at all with visionary Hope;

Drunk with Prosperity!—But soon
Her Rage subsides with Fortune's Frown;
When scarce a Ship from Flames was sav'd,
No longer then the Roman Power she brav'd.

Reduc'd to Sense, a real Fright
She felt; and shunn'd by timely Flight
The near Approach of Cæsar's Oars,
To reach her last Retreat, th'Ægyptian Shores.

As the staunch Hound the Hare pursues
O'er snow-clad Hæmon's tainted Dews,
Or by the Hawk the Dove is chas'd;
So Cæsar flies behind with rapid Haste,

In Chains to drag th'enchanting Pest:
But, with no female Fears possest,

133

She dreaded nothing but Disgrace,
Resolv'd to perish worthy of her Race!

And, rather than be led along,
(Derided by the shouting Throng)
A Royal Slave; she chose to go
A glorious Victim to the Shades below!

A Woman of no common Mold!
For see! deliberately bold,
With Face serene she dares to grasp
And stimulate to Rage the dreadful Asp;

That his black Poison he may drain,
With greater Speed, thro' every Vein:
Scorning to grace the Triumph's Pride,
A Queen she liv'd, and like a Queen she died!

136

ODE XXXVIII. To his Boy.

1

I hate the Pride of Persia's Taste,
And Wreaths, with Rind of Linden grac'd;
Boy, ask not where the tardy Rose,
Secure from blighting Winter, blows.

2

Plain Myrtle Wreaths alone provide,
Nor studious search for aught beside;
Myrtle will suit thy Brow and mine,
Drinking beneath th'embowering Vine.

The Same Ode.

[I hate, my Boy, the Persian Pride]

By a Lady.

1

I hate, my Boy, the Persian Pride;
Eternal Greens in Garlands tied:
And for the Rose thy Search forbear,
To crop the latest of the Year.

137

2

To simple Myrtle stand confin'd;
'Tis fit the Servant's Brows to bind;
'Tis fit the Master's Brows to twine,
Who drinks beneath the shady Vine.

The END of the First Book.