ODE XVI. To Grosphus.
1
The Sailor, when the Tempest roars,
And Moon and Stars but faintly shine,
For Ease, with lifted Hands, implores
The gracious Powers divine.
2
For Ease the Medes with Shafts are taught
To wound; and Thrace in Fight is bold;
But Ease, my Grosphus! is not bought
With Purple, Gemms, or Gold.
3
Nor Wealth, nor Lictors' Rods, can quell
The Mind's fierce Tumults, nor appease
The hovering Cares which love to dwell
In gilded Palaces.
4
Happy! who, with his simple Cheer
Content, seeks not from Home to stray;
Whose easy Slumbers Hope and Fear
Can never chase away.
5
Why should we crowd with various Schemes
Our Span, and distant Regions try?
Who leaves his Country, vainly dreams
He from himself can fly.
6
The Warrior on his fiery Steed,
Or brass-beak'd Ship, too sure will find,
Care can in Swiftness far exceed
The Stag, or rapid Wind.
7
Thought for the Morrow, Sons of Mirth
Discard. Mischance with Smiles to meet,
Will blunt its Sting: for Bliss on Earth
Was never found complete.
8
Fate snatch'd Achilles in his Prime;
With wasting Age Tithonus died;
And Heaven for Me may lengthen Time,
To Thee, perhaps, deny'd.
9
Sicilian Herds, a large Increase!
Around thee low; the Courser neighs
To Thee; the twice-dy'd purple Fleece
Thy tender Limbs arrays.
10
To Me, by Fate, a slender Vein
Of Wit, with my small Farm allow'd,
Has taught thy Horace to disdain
The base detracting Crowd.
J. D.