ODE XVIII.
[Beneath my humble Roof, no Gold]
1
Beneath my humble Roof, no Gold,
Nor Ivory Cornice shines;
Nor Columns Citron Beams uphold,
Brought from th'Hymettian Mines.
2
I never, by a spurious Plea,
Dethron'd the lawful Heir;
Nor noble Dames weave Robes, for Me,
In purple Pomp, to wear.
3
But Truth I boast, a liberal Vein
Of Wit; tho' small my Store:
Nor do the Wealthy Me disdain:
I ask of Heaven no more;
4
Nor of Mæcenas aught require,
Of all I wish possest;
My Villa fills its Lord's Desire,
And makes him truly blest.
5
Days are by fleeting Days pursu'd;
The Moons increase and wane;
While Marble Blocks by You are hew'd,
Tho' Death is in your Train:
6
You stately Domes prepare to raise,
Unmindful of your Tomb;
And the hoarse Baïan Billows chase,
To give you ampler Room.
7
What tho' You daily stretch your Bounds,
Despising Wrong and Right!
What tho' You seize your Neighbour's Grounds,
Rejoicing in your Might;
8
And view him (seeking new Abodes,
An Exile from his Home,
His Bosom fill'd with Houshold Gods)
With Wife and Children roam!
9
Yet the rich Lord no Seat attends
More sure than Pluto's Hall;
Thither each Man in Turn descends,
As well the Great as Small.
10
Why haste you then to heap a Store
Of unavailing Wealth?
Hell's Captives can return no more
By Violence or Stealth.
11
Charon, Prometheus ne'er for Gold
Bore from his dark Domains;
He Tantalus in Stygian Hold,
And all his Race, detains:
12
But still attends the Wretch's Prayer,
Opprest with Toil and Woes;
Invok'd or not, he sooths his Care,
And endless Rest bestows.
J. D.