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A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace

With the Original Text, and Critical Notes collected from his best Latin and French Commentators. By the Revd Mr. Philip Francis...The third edition
  

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Ode I. To Asinius Pollio.
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Ode I. To Asinius Pollio.

Of warm Commotions, wrathful Jars,
The growing Seeds of civil Wars;
Of double Fortune's cruel Games,
The specious Means, the private Aims,
And fatal Friendships of the guilty Great,
Alas! how fatal to the Roman State!

131

Of mighty Legions late-subdu'd,
And Arms with Latian Blood imbru'd,
Yet unaton'd (a Labour vast!
Doubtful the Dye, and dire the Cast!)
You treat adventurous, and incautious tread
On Fires, with faithless Embers overspread:
Retard a while thy glowing Vein,
Nor swell the solemn, tragic Scene;
And when thy sage, historic Cares
Have form'd the Train of Rome's Affairs,
With lofty Rapture re-inflam'd, infuse
Heroic Thoughts, and wake the buskin'd Muse:
O Pollio, Thou the great Defence
Of sad, impleaded Innocence,
On whom, to weigh the grand Debate,
In deep Consult the Fathers wait;
For whom the Triumphs o'er Dalmatia spread
Unfading Honours round thy laurel'd Head.

133

Lo! now the Clarion's Voice I hear,
Its threatning Murmurs pierce mine Ear
And in thy Lines with brazen Breath
The Trumpet sounds the Charge of Death;
Now, now the Flash of brandish'd Arms affright
The flying Steed, and marrs the Rider's Sight!
Panting with Terrour I survey
The martial Host in dread Array,
The Chiefs, how valiant and how just!
Defil'd with not inglorious Dust,
And all the World in Chains but Cato see
Of Soul unshock'd and savage to be free.
Imperial Juno, fraught with Ire,
And all the partial Gods of Tyre,
Who, feeble to revenge her Cries,
Retreated to their native Skies,
Have in the Victor's bleeding Race repaid
Jugurtha's Ruin and appeas'd his Shade.
What Plain, by Mortals travers'd o'er,
Is not enrich'd with Roman Gore?
Unnumber'd Sepulchres record
The deathful Harvest of the Sword,
And proud Hesperia rushing into Thrall,
While distant Parthia heard the cumberous Fall.

135

What Gulph, what rapid River flows
Unconscious of our wasteful Woes?
What rolling Sea's unfathom'd Tide
Have not the Daunian Slaughters dy'd?
What Coast, encircled by the briny Flood,
Boasts not the shameful Tribute of our Blood?
But Thou, my Muse, to whom belong
The sportive Jest and jocund Song:
Beyond thy Province cease to stray,
Nor vain revive the plaintive Lay:
Seek humbler Measures, indolently laid
With Me beneath some Love-sequester'd Shade.