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Horace, Ode IV. Book IV.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


99

Horace, Ode IV. Book IV.

The Praises of Drusus and Tiberius.

As Jove's Imperial Bird, to whom the sway
O'er all the feather'd Race was giv'n;
(For so did he his trusty Fav'rite pay,
For wafting Ganymede to Heav'n;)
With native vigour, join'd to youthful prime,
Springs from the nest, tho' check'd by fear,
Unwonted heights with tender wing to climb,
When Summer Gales the Welkin clear:
With hostile rage the Spoiler next descends
Impetuous on the bleating Fold:
Thence, more assur'd, reluctant Dragons rends,
With love of Prey and Combat bold:
Or as a Kid, on Pastures fair to graze
Intent, the Lion's Progeny,
Wean'd from her yellow Mother's milk, surveys,
By fangs in slaughter new to die:
Such Drusus the Vindelici beheld
Beneath the Alps, unmatch'd in war!
And by a sage and youthful Leader quell'd,
The Troops, victorious long and far,
Prov'd what a Genius and a Mind could dare,
By Precept and Example taught;
And what, Augustus, thy Paternal Care
In either Nero's Bloom has wrought.

100

The Brave beget the Brave: the Bull, the Steed,
Are stamp'd upon their gen'rous Race;
Nor is the Dove's unwarlike Brood decreed
The Royal Eagle to disgrace.
But Culture calls the hidden vigour forth;
And Virtue, when on Learning built,
Confirms the heart: In Blood devoid of worth,
The conscious Shame enhances Guilt.
What Rome her Nero's owes, let Asdrubal
Be witness, that decisive day,
The first, that near Metaurus, by his Fall
From Latium chas'd the Night away:
When the dire African, to Mars, among
Italian Cities, gave the rein,
Impetuous as the flame that runs along
The pines, or Eurus o'er the main.
From that auspicious hour our Youth sustain'd
With better fate the toils of fight;
And Shrines, by Carthaginian rage profan'd,
Again beheld their Gods upright.
And thus said faithless Hannibal at length,
‘Like Stags, the prey of Wolves, are We,
‘Who follow, whom to fly, or, short of strength,
‘Elude by fraud, were victory.
‘The Warriour Race, who to th' Ausonian coast
‘From Ilium, sunk in Argive fires,

101

‘Convey'd their Gods, on Tuscan billows tost,
‘Their Offspring and their aged Sires,
‘Uninjur'd, like the widely-spreading Oak
‘On Algidus with shade embrown'd,
‘Defy the sturdy Steel's repeated stroke,
‘And draw new vigour from the wound.
‘Not baffled Hercules receiv'd a foil
‘More grievous from the sprouting store
‘Of Hydra's heads; no greater Pest the soil
‘Of Thebes or Colchis ever bore.
‘Plung'd in the Deep, more graceful thence they spring,
‘The Sons of dearly-purchas'd fame;
‘Tho' thrown, with vast applause the Victor fling,
‘And Matrons their exploits proclaim.
‘With lofty tidings I shall ne'er again
‘My long-triumphant Carthage hail:
‘Lost, lost, in Asdrubal untimely slain,
‘Our Name's best hope and fortune fail.
The Claudian hands all wonders shall perform,
By Jove's indulgent aid secur'd;
And by sagacious care, to rule the storm
Of well-conducted war, enur'd.