ODE VII. To Pompeius Varus.
1
Pompey!
with Me to utmost Dangers driven,
When we in Brutus' Army fought,
My first of Friends! what Power has brought
Thee to thy Country's Gods and native Heaven?
2
With whom, in Mirth and Wine, the tardy Day
(While Oyl of Syria, round my Head,
Its grateful, precious Fragrance spread),
So oft has glided unperceiv'd away.
3
With whom (unmindful of my little Shield)
I fled from dire Philippi's Plain,
When Valour fail'd; when Threats were vain;
And our bold Chiefs lay bleeding on the Field.
4
With Terror wing'd, I fled thro' hostile Arms,
Hid in a Cloud, which Hermes gave;
But Thee the furious refluent Wave
Again drove back to all the War's Alarms.
5
Pay then to Jove the promis'd Feast, nor spare
The hoarded Casks, for Thee design'd;
And, in my Laurel's Shade reclin'd,
Repose thy Limbs, fatigu'd by Length of War.
6
Fill up the polish'd Bowl with generous Wine;
From copious Shells rich Odors shed:
Who now, to crown the glowing Head,
Will Wreaths of Parsley or of Myrtle twine?
7
Who, nam'd by Venus, at the jovial Board
The Laws of drinking shall prescribe?
I, madder than the Thracian Tribe,
Rejoice to revell for a Friend restor'd.
J. D.
