ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS CÆSAR.
Many storms and tempests are inflicted upon the Roman people,
to avenge the death of Julius Cæsar. The sole hope of
the empire is placed in the safety of Augustus.
Surely at length it may suffice,
These frequent storms of snow and hail,
Which Jove, commission'd from the skies,
So dreadful to prevail!
And hurling from his flaming arm
His vengeful bolts, 'midst thunder-show'rs
Has o'er the city spread th'alarm,
And smote the sacred tow'rs.
Thro' all the world th'alarm is spread,
For fear of those portentous days,
When Proteus on the mountain's head
Made his sea-monsters graze.
On topmost elms the scaly race
Stuck where the ring-doves us'd to be,
And tim'rous deer, expell'd their place,
Swam in the whelming sea.
We saw the sandy Tiber drive
Huge billows from th'Etrurian strand,
And e'en at Vesta's fane arrive
To mar, what Numa plann'd.
Whilst vengeful 'gainst the will supreme
He fondling hears
his wife complain,
And flooding to the left his stream,
He glories in our bane.
Thinn'd by our crimes our sons shall tell,
How Romans whet the sword and spear,
(Against the Persians had been well)
And all our broils shall hear.
What pow'r to save her sinking name
Shall Rome invoke, what urgent suit
Shall Vesta's holy virgin's frame
In hymns that bear no fruit.
What worthy, for the nation's aid,
Our crimes t'atone shall Jove assign,
Come white-rob'd Phœbus, as we've pray'd,
Do thou thyself divine?
Or if thou rather wouldst befriend
Glad queen of Eryce's perfumes,
Whom love and pleasantry attend
With their ambrosial plumes—
Or, Mars, if thou at length wouldst speed,
O founder of the Roman race,
To visit thy neglected seed,
Now sunk into disgrace:
Too long indulg'd thy cruel sport,
Whom noise, and polish'd helms delight,
And the fierce Moor's determin'd port,
And aspect in the fight.
Or if the part you can sustain,
By thee the righteous deed be done,
You
, which yourself a mortal feign,
O gentle Maia's son:
Late may'st thou be again receiv'd,
And long in gladness rule our state,
Nor thee at all our vices griev'd,
Th'unwelcome gale translate!
Here rather be the triumph priz'd,
And, father, emp'ror dear to Rome,
Delight thine ear—nor unchastis'd,
Let scamp'ring Medes presume!