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

Pollio! the Senate's Guide confess'd,
And Friend of Innocence distress'd,
For whom Dalmatia's Conquest won,
To deck your Brows, a fadeless Laurel Crown,
The growing Seeds of Civil War,
Commencing in Metellus' Year;
Fortune by Turns severe and kind;
And Roman Chiefs in cruel Leagues combin'd;

144

Our Arms, yet reeking with the Stains
Of Blood, that unaton'd remains;
A dangerous Task! You trace; and tread
On Fire, beneath deceitful Ashes spread!
Let then your Tragic Muse defer
To rouze th'applauding Theatre,
Till this great Work, with ripen'd Thought,
At length to just Perfection you have brought:
Then in Cecropian Buskins stand,
And sweep the Lyre with daring Hand—
Now with the Fife you pierce my Ear;
And now the Trumpet's sprightly Notes I hear!
The glittering Arms dismay the Horse,
Nor can the Rider guide his Course.
To Fancy's Eye each Chief appears,
While no inglorious Dust his Face besmears:
To Cæsar all the World resign'd
I see, but Cato's stubborn Mind!
Or Juno, or some friendly Power
To Afric, (who from thence had fled before),
Thither allur'd the Victor's Race,
(O lasting Shame! O dire Disgrace!)
To slay them on the Libyan Coast,
As Victims to Jugurtha's angry Ghost!

145

What distant Sea, or distant Flood,
But has been stain'd with Roman Blood?
In every Clime, on every Plain,
What Monuments of impious Wars remain?
Parthia rejoic'd to hear the Sound
Of Rome's dire Ruin echo'd round.
Such the Decrees of righteous Fate!
And such the sad Effects of Civil Hate!
But lest, fond Muse, the Céan Lyre
Thou should'st attempt, with Me retire
To Venus' Grott, and sooth thy Vein
With Subjects suited to thy lighter Strain!