The Works of Horace In English Verse By several hands. Collected and Published By Mr. Duncombe. With Notes Historical and Critical |
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The Works of Horace In English Verse | ||
263
ODE V.
[We own the sovereign Power of Jove]
We own the sovereign Power of Jove,
Proclaim'd by Thunder from above:
A present Deity we know,
While here Augustus rules below;
For haughty Parthia courts his Chain,
And Britain swells his wide Domain.
Gods! could a Roman tamely bend,
Could Crassus' Veteran condescend
To serve th'insulting Mede for Life,
Match'd with a base Barbarian Wife,
Forgetful of the Roman Name,
The sacred Shields, and Vesta's Flame,
While Jove the Capitol retain'd,
And Rome without a Rival reign'd!
Proclaim'd by Thunder from above:
A present Deity we know,
While here Augustus rules below;
For haughty Parthia courts his Chain,
And Britain swells his wide Domain.
264
Could Crassus' Veteran condescend
To serve th'insulting Mede for Life,
Match'd with a base Barbarian Wife,
Forgetful of the Roman Name,
The sacred Shields, and Vesta's Flame,
While Jove the Capitol retain'd,
And Rome without a Rival reign'd!
A Crime so fatal to prevent,
Old Regulus refus'd Consent
To slavish Terms, which he foresaw
A Curse on future Times would draw;
And mov'd, the recreant Youths should lie,
Unransom'd, in Captivity.
‘I saw, he cry'd, the Punic Foes
‘Our Standards in their Fanes expose;
‘Their Gates unfolded, and the Plain,
‘Laid waste by us, now till'd again:
‘I saw their Arms, a bloodless Prey,
‘From our base Soldiers torn away,
‘And free-born Romans' coward Hands
‘Behind them ty'd in servile Bands.
‘Say, will they now more brave return,
‘And with Increase of Courage burn?
‘This Ruin adds to Infamy:
‘As to the Fleece, in Tyrian Dye
‘Once dipt, no Industry nor Art
‘Its native Whiteness can impart;
‘So when fair Virtue once is stain'd,
‘Her Gloss can never be regain'd.
‘When, disentangled from the Snare,
‘The Hind her Hunter's Lance shall dare,
‘That Wretch with martial Rage shall glow,
‘Who yielded to a faithless Foe,
‘And, in his turn, the Battle gain,
‘Who, fearing Death, could wear a Chain,
‘Nor knew, uniting Peace with Strife,
‘Valour his only Chance for Life.
‘O Carthage! to our endless Shame,
‘Rais'd on the ruin'd Roman Name!’
Old Regulus refus'd Consent
To slavish Terms, which he foresaw
A Curse on future Times would draw;
And mov'd, the recreant Youths should lie,
Unransom'd, in Captivity.
‘I saw, he cry'd, the Punic Foes
‘Our Standards in their Fanes expose;
‘Their Gates unfolded, and the Plain,
‘Laid waste by us, now till'd again:
‘I saw their Arms, a bloodless Prey,
‘From our base Soldiers torn away,
‘And free-born Romans' coward Hands
‘Behind them ty'd in servile Bands.
‘Say, will they now more brave return,
‘And with Increase of Courage burn?
265
‘As to the Fleece, in Tyrian Dye
‘Once dipt, no Industry nor Art
‘Its native Whiteness can impart;
‘So when fair Virtue once is stain'd,
‘Her Gloss can never be regain'd.
‘When, disentangled from the Snare,
‘The Hind her Hunter's Lance shall dare,
‘That Wretch with martial Rage shall glow,
‘Who yielded to a faithless Foe,
‘And, in his turn, the Battle gain,
‘Who, fearing Death, could wear a Chain,
‘Nor knew, uniting Peace with Strife,
‘Valour his only Chance for Life.
‘O Carthage! to our endless Shame,
‘Rais'd on the ruin'd Roman Name!’
He said; and, with averted Face,
Declin'd his Consort's chaste Embrace,
As now a Slave, and to be lov'd
Unworthy; and his Sons remov'd;
While to the Ground, with Thought intent,
His awful Eyes he sternly bent,
Till he the wavering Senate's Voice
Had fix'd, to authorize a Choice,
Which He, He only, could have made:
Then, by his Friends in vain delay'd,
Tho' conscious of the dreadful Fate,
Projected by Barbarian Hate,
From Relatives, who press'd his Stay,
And struggling Crowds, he broke away,
Serene, as when, from Noise and Strife,
‘And all the busy Cares of Life,’
He sought Venafrum's sweet Recess,
Th'Abode of Peace and Happiness!
Declin'd his Consort's chaste Embrace,
As now a Slave, and to be lov'd
Unworthy; and his Sons remov'd;
While to the Ground, with Thought intent,
His awful Eyes he sternly bent,
Till he the wavering Senate's Voice
Had fix'd, to authorize a Choice,
266
Then, by his Friends in vain delay'd,
Tho' conscious of the dreadful Fate,
Projected by Barbarian Hate,
From Relatives, who press'd his Stay,
And struggling Crowds, he broke away,
Serene, as when, from Noise and Strife,
‘And all the busy Cares of Life,’
He sought Venafrum's sweet Recess,
Th'Abode of Peace and Happiness!
J. D.
The Works of Horace In English Verse | ||