University of Virginia Library

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

Prologue.

[I hate the Vulgar, a licentious Throng!]

I hate the Vulgar, a licentious Throng!
Be still: To Maids and Youths my Lays belong:
The Muses' Priest with due Attention own,
Who sings in Strains to Roman Ears unknown!

ODE I.

[Kings rule their Flocks with awful Sway]

Kings rule their Flocks with awful Sway;
Yet Kings themselves must Jove obey:
The Spoils of conquer'd Giants crown the God,
And all Things tremble at his sovereign Nod!
Th'Ambitious try, by various Arts,
To bribe, and win the People's Hearts:
One Candidate his large Possessions grace;
Another sues, distinguish'd by his Race:
On Fame and Morals this relies;
That, throng'd with Clients, claims the Prize:
But Death shall level All; for each Man's Name
Is rolling in the Urn's capacious Frame.
The Wretch who views, with conscious Dread,
A Sword hang threat'ning o'er his Head,
Starves, tho' Sicilian Banquets crown the Board,
Nor softest Strains can balmy Sleep afford;
Yet will not balmy Sleep disdain
The Cottage of the humble Swain;
Nor the cool Grove; nor Tempé's happy Vales,
Still gently fann'd by Zephyr's genial Gales.
He, who can curb his wild Desires,
Nor more, than Nature asks, requires,
Beholds Arcturus set, devoid of Fear,
Nor trembles when the stormy Goats appear;
Repines not, when his Vines with Hail
Are struck, or blighted Harvests fail;
Or that his drooping Orchards now complain
Of Summer's Heat, and now of Winter's Rain.
Not so the Man, by high-rais'd Moles
Confining ev'n the finny Shoals
To narrower Bounds; for, see the crowded Shore
By Builders seiz'd, where Waves were heard to roar.
The Lord, disdainful of the Land,
Bids the wild Billows leave the Strand;
But could his lofty Turrets reach the Sky,
Yet Menaces and Fears would mount as high.
Care climbs the brazen Vessel's Sides,
Behind the flying Horseman rides;
Nor quits th'applauded Consul's gilded Car,
Marching triumphant from the finish'd War.
Then since nor stately Domes, nor Wealth,
Can yield Content, or purchase Health;
Since purple Robes, which gay as Phosphor shine,
The Spice of Araby, Falernian Wine,
And Persian Odors, can impart
No Balm to heal a wounded Heart;
Why should I wish to rear a stately Pile
On Phrygian Pillars, in the modern Style,
Gaz'd at with Envy? or to change
My Vale, where Flocks and Heifers range,
And quit my rural Ease, and Sabine Seat,
For the more cumb'rous Riches of the Great?

The Same Ode Imitated.

[I hate the common Herd: Hence, ye Profane!—]

ODE II. To his Friends.

ODE III.

[The Man resolv'd, and firmly just]

The Man resolv'd, and firmly just,
Adheres, unshaken, to his Trust,
Tho' loudly rage his factious Foes,
And tho' a Tyrant's Threats oppose;
Tho', Mountain-high, the Billows roll,
And Lightnings flash from Pole to Pole;
Nor would the Wreck his Mind appall,
Should the whole World to swift Destruction fall.
To Heaven, by Virtues great as these,
Fam'd Pollux rose, and Hercules;
Amidst whose Feasts, with rosy Lips,
The nectar'd Bowl Augustus sips.
Thus too rose Bacchus, in his Car
By Tygers drawn, untaught to bear
The Yoke; and thus, on Mars's Steeds,
Our Romulus escap'd the Stygian Meads:
Then, in Olympus' high Abodes,
Thus Juno spoke, and pleas'd the Gods:
A foreign Bride, and an unjust
Adulterous Umpire, laid in Dust
The Trojan Towers, condemn'd by Me,
And Wisdom's injur'd Deity,
What time their impious Monarch dar'd
Deny two Gods their promis'd due Reward.
No longer, deck'd with every Grace,
Shines Helen's shameless Guest; the Race
Of Priam now no more in Fight
O'erpower the Greeks, by Hector's Might:
By us protracted, with the Wars,
My Hatred ends; I yield to Mars
That Son, whom, on the Latian Shore,
Of Trojan Race, a Royal Priestess bore.
These shining Mansions let him gain,
Nectareous Goblets let him drain,
And, in the Realms of endless Rest,
Share all the Pleasures of the Blest.
O'er any Region, uncontroul'd,
These Exiles may Dominion hold,
While Ocean severs Troy from Rome:
While Herds shall browze on perjur'd Paris' Tomb,
Or, there, wild Beasts their Young shall hide,
So long the Capitolian Pride
Shall last; and warlike Rome impose
Laws on her conquer'd Parthian Foes.
Her Name, to Earth's Extremity,
Dreadful shall sound; both where the Sea
Europe from Africa divides,
And where the Nile o'erflows with fruitful Tides.
With Truth, and untaught Virtue bold;
Upright to scorn the Charms of Gold,
And let it innocently shine,
And sleep, unransack'd, in the Mine.
Let ev'n the World's remotest Bound
Re-echo with their Trumpets' Sound,
Where endless Summers parch the Plain,
Or where the Clouds o'erflow with endless Rain.
But on these Terms alone, their Claim
I grant to universal Fame;
That never, with too pious Care,
Troy's ancient Ruins they repair:
For Troy, rebuilt with Omens dire,
Again shall be involv'd in Fire,
While I, Jove's Wife and Sister, lead
The conquering Bands, and urge the glorious Deed.
Tho' thrice should rise the brazen Wall,
By Phœbus built, it thrice should fall
By Grecian Force; and thrice a Son
Or Husband slain, the Wives bemoan—
This Strain ill suits my lighter String;
Cease, daring Muse! forbear to sing
The Words of Gods; nor dare to wrong
This lofty Theme by thy unequal Song!

The Same Ode Imitated.

[The Man that's resolute and just]

ODE IV. To Calliope.

ODE V.

[We own the sovereign Power of Jove]

ODE VI. To the Roman People.

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Briton! the Thunder of the Wrath divine]

ODE VII. To Asterie.

ODE VIII. To Mæcenas.

ODE IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.

Horace.
Whilst I was fond, and You were kind,
Nor any dearer Youth, reclin'd
On your soft Bosom, sought to rest,
Not Persia's Monarch was so blest.

Lydia.
Whilst You ador'd no other Face,
Nor lov'd me in the second Place,
Your Lydia's celebrated Fame
Outshone the Roman Ilia's Name.

Horace.
Me, Chloë now possesses whole;
Her Voice and Lyre command my Soul:
Nor would I Death itself decline,
Could I redeem her Life with mine.

Lydia.
For Me young lovely Calaïs burns,
And Warmth for Warmth my Heart returns.
Twice would I Life for Him resign,
Could his be ransom'd thus with mine.

Horace.
What if the God, whose Bands we broke,
Again should tame us to the Yoke;
What if my Chloë cease to reign,
And Lydia her lost Power regain!

Lydia.
Tho' Phosphor be less fair than He;
Thou wilder than the raging Sea;
Lighter than Down; yet gladly I
With Thee would live, with Thee would die.

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Celia, when I alone was blest]

Amyntas.
Celia , when I alone was blest
In full Possession of thy Breast,
Nor other happy Youth had Part,
Of that, ah! too inconstant Heart;
Made by thy Love both rich and great,
I envy'd not the Regal State.

Celia.
Amyntas, when thy lasting Verse
Did only Celia's Praise rehearse;
When yet no Rival's hated Name
Disgrac'd thy Passion, and my Fame;
Than Venus' self more Joy I knew,
Were all the Tales of Poets true.

Amyntas.
Bound in Lucinda's pleasing Chains,
O'er every Sense the Fair-one reigns;
Her heavenly Voice, with sweet Surprize,
Extends the Conquest of her Eyes:
My Life I early would resign,
Hers to prolong, more dear than mine.

Celia.
In every Motion of my Breast,
The Power of Thyrsis is confess'd:
I feel, with Joy, the warm Desires;
An equal Flame his Bosom fires:
Repeated Deaths I would sustain,
Might those preserve the lovely Swain.

Amyntas.
What if our mutual Loves return,
And we with wonted Ardor burn;
If the kind God his gentle Yoke,
Imposes, never to be broke,
And, from Lucinda's Bonds set free,
I give my destin'd Heart to Thee?

Celia.
Tho' the dear Youth is kind and fair,
And constant as the Turtles are;
Thou, boisterous as the Northern Wind,
And light as Cork, to Change inclin'd:
With Thee my blissful Days I'd spend,
And in thy Arms my Life would end!

ODE X. To Lycé.

ODE XI. To Mercury.

ODE XII. To Neobule.

Wretched the Girl, forbid to prove
Th'alternate Joys of Wine and Love,
And doom'd an Uncle's Threats to fear,
Too rugged for a tender Ear.
The winged Boy, in wanton Play,
Thy Work and Basket steals away:
Thy Web and Pallas' curious Toils
Are now become fair Hebrus' Spoils;
A Youth more skilful, on the Plain,
Than Glaucus' Son to guide the Rein:
Admir'd he shines with manly Grace,
Both in the Cæstus and the Race;
With plyant Shoulders can divide
The foaming Tyber's rapid Tide;
Along the Lawn pursue the Doe,
And pierce her with unerring Bow;
Or nimbly with his Spear surprize
The Boar, that close in Covert lies!

ODE XIII. To the Nymph presiding over the Blandusian Fountain.

The Same Ode Imitated.

To the Pen, employed in writing Sermons.

ODE XIV. On the Return of Augustus from Spain.

ODE XV. To Chloris.

Thou Wife of Ibycus the Poor,
At length to Scandal bar the Door;
Advancing near thy funeral Flame,
Set Bounds to thy notorious Shame:
Sport not among the Virgin Train,
Nor sparkling Stars with Vapours stain.
What suits the Daughter in her Prime,
In wrinkled Age is deem'd a Crime.
For she, with Bacchanalian Rage,
In Midnight Frolics may engage,
And, like a Kid, with better Grace,
In wanton Sport her Nothus chase.
The Wool, near fair Luceria shorn,
Will more than Harps thy Hands adorn.
The purple Rose is now too weak
To hide the Paleness of thy Cheek.
Since Age and Riot ill agree,
Think on thy own Mortality!
For Revels will not Thee become,
Grown old, and bending to the Tomb.

ODE XVI. To Mæcenas,

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Danaë, inclosed in Towers of Brass]

Danaë , inclosed in Towers of Brass,
Strong Iron Gates and opening Dogs
Wakeful, had well secur'd by Day,
Had well secur'd by Night;
If Jove and Venus had not mock'd
The jealous Sire—So Fables tell—
Vain Iron! Vain Brass! transform'd to Gold,
He won the greedy Maid.
When Gold appears, the Guards retire,
The Floods divide, the Rocks are rent;
Not Thunder flings the fiery Bolt
With such resistless Power.
Subjects their Kings, and Priests their Gods,
Exchange for Gold. The Gownman Right
And Wrong confounds: For Gold he pleads;
For Gold betrays the Cause.
Touch'd by thy stronger Force, tow'rds Thee
The Compass veers, almighty Gold!
Before thee Wisdom, Valour, Sense,
And Virtue is no more.
Care follows close, where Gold precedes:
Sweet Innocence, Contentment, Peace,
No more shall bless the Day; no more
Soft Slumbers bless the Night.
This Horace saw, wise Bard! and durst
Refuse the glittering Bribe; to share
With Cæsar all the World; to share
The World, and share the Toil.
‘Tempt me no more, Mæcenas, tempt
‘No more thy Flaccus to aspire
‘To Wealth and Power; he fears the Helm
‘Because he fears the Storm.
‘What we deny ourselves, just Heaven
‘Restores with Interest. Naked, see!
‘Naked thy humble Friend deserts
‘The Party of the Great.
‘Glad Fugitive—he longs to reach
‘The Camp of the contented Few,
‘Whose little is enough—Enough—
‘That sweeter Word for All!’
O decent Pride! O truly Lord
Of his Possessions, who still bears
A Soul above them! richer far
Than all Apulia's Stores,
Heap'd in the crowded Barn, could make
The Mind, that covets without End,
And, drinking, thirsts for more! O Wretch,
In utmost Plenty, poor!
A silver Stream, a silent Grove,
A Summer's Eve, a small Estate,
Still faithful to its Lord: A Life
Retir'd from Noise or Care,
Steals thro' the World, with Joys unknown
To the profaner Mind; with Joys
Unknown to crowded Courts; to Peers,
And scepter'd Kings, unknown!
Tho' no proud Palace loads the Ground,
Or towers into the Sky; no Car,
With gilded Trappings gay, behind
Bestuck with pamper'd Slaves,
Moves slow in State; nor costly Wines
Tokay, Champaign, or Burgundy,
Nor high Ragouts deceive the Taste,
And progagate Disease!
Yet fair Content my Cottage chears;
Lettuce and Pease my Garden yields:
Plain Food, soft Ale, and homebrew'd Wines,
Still crown my healthful Board.
Thro' fragrant Fields, or spreading Lawns,
Where the Sheep graze, and Oxen low,
Or stalks the Stag, with Head erect,
I sometimes musing rove:
Pleas'd with his Load, sometimes my Pad
Smooth ambles to the neighbouring Gate,
Which opens friendly to receive
The not unwelcome Guest.
Happy! who knows himself, and knows
To judge of Happiness; to whom
Wise Heaven, with kind but frugal Hand,
Has each just Want supplied.

ODE XVII. To Ælius Lamia.

Ælius whose noble Lineage springs
From a long Race of ancient Kings,
(From Him the Lamia's Blood roll'd down,
Who greatly fill'd the Formian Throne,
Where the slow Streams of Liris rove
In Silence thro' Marica's Grove)
To-morrow from the East shall roar
Bleak Storms, and spread with Weeds the Shore;
With Leaves the Ground; unless in vain
Croaks the old Crow, presaging Rain.
Haste then to store thy Billets dry;
To-morrow let a Porket die;
With this and Wine thy Genius chear,
Nor to thy Slaves be too severe;
But let thy Houshold, free from Care,
With Thee the social Banquet share.

ODE XVIII. To Faunus.

Faunus , still fond to chase the Train
Of Nymphs who fly thee; gracious rove
Along my Bounds and sunny Plain;
Nor from my Flock in Wrath remove,
If, every Year, a Kid resign
His Blood; if the full Bowl, the Friend
Of Venus, pour its copious Wine;
And Steams from thy old Shrine ascend—
In Pastures all the Cattle sport,
Soon as returns thy hallow'd Day;
To Meads the vacant Hinds resort,
And, round th'unharness'd Oxen, play.
The Lamb from Wolves no longer flies;
For Thee the Wood its Honours sheds;
His Spade no more the Delver plies,
But thrice the Ground in Gambols treads.

ODE XIX. To Telephus.

ODE XX. To Pyrrhus.

ODE XXI. To his Cask.

ODE XXII. To Diana.

ODE XXIII. To Phidylé.

ODE XXIV.

[Tho' India's Stores your Wealth excell'd]

Tho' India's Stores your Wealth excell'd,
And rich Arabia, yet unquell'd;
Tho' Tyrrhene and Etruscan Seas
Were shaded by your ample Palaces;
When Fate, with adamantine Hand,
Shall urge th'inflexible Demand,
In vain you would redeem from Dread
Your Heart, in vain from Snares of Death your Head.
Better the savage Scythian lives,
Who in a Wain his Houshold drives;
Better the Gete, whose fruitful Grounds
No Fence divides, unmark'd by jealous Bounds;
One Year he tills the mellow Soil,
And rests the next from all his Toil:
No Step-dames treacherously prepare
The baneful Cup for hapless Orphans there:
No portion'd Wife controuls her Spouse,
And gives Gallants her plighted Vows:
The Suitors there alone require
For Dower, a Race of Probity entire,
And Chastity with native Charms,
Which bashful flies a Stranger's Arms:
They justly Breach of Vows disdain,
Or Death, their Doom, wipes off th'opprobrious Stain.
O who will quell our Civil Rage,
And Slaughter's impious Course asswage?
Would he in breathing Marble stand,
Engrav'd, The Father of a rescu'd Land,
Let him licentious Vice reclaim,
Content alone with future Fame.
Virtue, while flashing on our Eyes,
Envious, we hate; yet, when departed, prize.
But what can these Complaints import,
If Justice shrinks in cutting short
The Growth of Vice; for what avails
The wisest Law, if moral Virtue fails?
If nor the sultry Southern Coasts,
Nor Northern Climes, congeal'd with Frosts,
Nor all the Horrors of the Main,
From dangerous Searches for the hidden Gain,
The greedy Merchant can deter,
Or fright the daring Mariner.
What will not Want's false Shame enjoin,
Quitting the narrow Tract of Virtue's Line?—
Then to the Capitol convey,
While shouting Thousands crowd the Way,
Your Gems and fatal Gold, or throw
Into the Sea those Springs of every Woe:
If with Remorse your Crimes you view,
Each lawless Appetite subdue;
And strengthen the too tender Mind
With generous Studies of a manly Kind.
Our noble Youths, untaught to lead
Th'impetuous Chace, and guide the Steed,
Are skill'd to make the Trochus fly,
And nimbly cast the Law-forbidden Die.
Yet fond this worthless Son to raise,
The perjur'd Sire his Friend betrays:
In vain his wicked Coffers fill;
Something, I know not what, is wanting still.

ODE XXV. To Bacchus.

The Same Ode Paraphrased.

[O whither am I hurry'd, God of Wine]

O whither am I hurry'd, God of Wine,
Inspir'd, and full of Thee?
Into what Caves, what Forests, do I fly,
By some new Soul inform'd with Influence divine?
In what Recesses am I heard to raise
My Voice, high as immortal Cæsar's Praise;
To mix him with his kindred Stars above,
To plant him in the Courts of sovereign Jove?
Something I meditate
Sublime, and eminently great;
Something yet new, and yet unsung
By any mortal Tongue.
With such Amazemenr, such a frantic Flight,
Mad sleepless Bacchanals scour up the steepy Mountain's Height;
Whence wondering they behold eternal Winter's Face,
The frozen Hebrus, snow-clad Thrace,
And Rhodopé, where all the barbarous Train
In antic Dances revel o'er the Plain.
With what Delight my raptur'd Fancy roves,
By limpid Streams, thro' unfrequented Groves!
O thou! whose mighty Energy's confest
By every Goddess of the Flood;
By thy wild Priestess, when her heaving Breast,
With fierce enthusiastic Rage possest,
Proclaims the present God;
And when she, in her sacred Round,
The rooted Ash tears from the groaning Ground;
Nothing I sing, or low or mean shall be;
But rising all to Immortality!
Such Flights are dangerously high,
With unfledg'd Plumes to tempt the lofty Sky!
But, Bacchus! every Danger sweet is found,
While, with warm elevated Heads,
We follow Thee with Vine-leaf Garlands crown'd;
We follow wheresoe'er thy Inspiration leads!

ODE XXVI. To Venus.

ODE XXVII. To Galatea,

Setting out for Brundusium, in order to cross the Adriatic Sea, in her Way to Greece.

ODE XXVIII. To Lydé.

ODE XXIX. To Mæcenas.

ODE XXX.

[A monument on stable Base]

The Same Ode Imitated.

On taking a Degree.