A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Francis, Philip (1708?-1773)

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VOL. I.

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THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE BOOK OF THE EPODES of HORACE.

THE SECULAR POEM.

II.

VOL. II.

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I. VOL. I.

TO HIS EXCELLENCY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD NEWPORT, ONE OF THE LORDS JUSTICES, AND LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF IRELAND, THIS WORK IS HUMBLY INSCRIBED BY HIS MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT PHILIP FRANCIS.

THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Mæcenas.

O Thou, whose Birth illustrious springs
From fair Etruria's ancient Kings,
Mæcenas, to whose Guardian Name
I owe my Fortune and my Fame;
In Clouds th'Olympic Dust to roll,
To turn with kindling Wheels the Goal,
And gain the Palm, victorious Prize,
Exalts a Mortal to the Skies.

This Man, to Honours rais'd supreme,
By Rome's inconstant, loud Acclaim;
Another, if from Lybia's Plain
He stores his private Barn with Grain;
A Third, who with unceasing Toil
Plows chearful his paternal Soil;
While in their several Wishes blest,
Not all the Wealth by Kings possest,
Shall tempt, with fearful Souls, to brave
The Terrours of the foamy Wave.

When loud the Winds and Waters wage
Wild War with elemental Rage,
The Merchant praises the Retreat,
The Quiet of his rural Seat;
Yet, Want untutor'd to sustain,
Soon rigs his shatter'd Bark again.

No mean Delights possess his Soul,
With good old Wine who crowns his Bowl;

Whose early Revels are begun,
Ere half the Course of Day be run,
Now, by some sacred Fountain laid,
Now, stretch'd beneath some bowering Shade.

Others in tented Fields rejoice,
The Trumpet-Sound, the Clarion-Voice:
With Joy the Sounds of War they hear,
Of War, which tender Mothers fear.

The Sportsman, chill'd by midnight Jove,
Forgets his tender, wedded Love,
Whether his faithful Hounds pursue,
And hold the bounding Hind in View;
Whether the Boar, fierce-foaming, foils
The Chace, and breaks the spreading Toils.

An Ivy-wreath, fair Learning's Prize,
Raises Mæcenas to the Skies,
Be mine, amid the breezy Grove,
In sacred Solitude to rove;
To see the Nymphs and Satyrs bound,
Light-dancing, through the mazy Round,
While all the tuneful Sisters join
Their various Harmony divine.
But if You rank me with the Choir,
Who tun'd with Art the Grecian Lyre,
Swift to the noblest Heights of Fame,
Shall rise thy Poet's deathless Name.

Ode II. To Augustus.

Enough of Snow, and Hail, th'immortal Sire
Hath pour'd tempestuous; whilst his Thunders dire,
With red right Arm at his own Temples hurl'd,
With Fear and Horrour shook the guilty World,
Lest Pyrrha's Age return, with plaintive Cries
Who saw the Deep with new-born Wonders rise;
When to the Mountain-Summit Proteus drove
His Sea-born Herd, and where the Wood-land Dove
Late perch'd, his wonted Seat, the scaly Brood
Entangled hung upon the topmost Wood,
And every timorous Native of the Plain
High-floating swam amid the boundless Main.

We saw, push'd backward to his native Source,
The yellow Tiber roll his rapid Course,
With impious Ruin threatning Vesta's Fane,
And the great Monuments of Numa's Reign;
With Grief and Rage while Ilia's Bosom glows,
Boastful, for her Revenge, his Waters rose,
But now, th'uxorious River glides away,
So Jove commands, smooth-winding to the Sea:
And yet, less numerous by their Parents' Crimes,
Our Sons shall hear, shall hear to latest Times,
Of Roman Arms with civil Gore embru'd,
Which better had the Persian Foe subdu'd.

Whom of her Guardian Gods, what pitying Pow'r,
To raise her sinking State shall Rome implore?
Shall her own hallow'd Virgin's earnest Prayer
Harmonious charm offended Vesta's Ear?

To whom shall Jove assign to purge away
The guilty Deed? Appear thou God of Day,
But gracious veil thy Shoulders beamy-bright,
Oh! veil in Clouds th'unsufferable Light:
Or may we rather thy Protection claim,
Sicilian Venus, Laughter-loving Dame,
Round whom gay Jocus, and the God of Love,
Wave the light Wing, and hovering playful rove?

Or whom the polish'd Helm, the Noise of Arms,
And the stern Soldier's Frown with Transport warms,
Parent of Rome, amid the Rage of Fight
Sated with Scenes of Blood, thy fierce Delight!
Hither at length thine Aspect gracious bend,
And, powerful, thy neglected Race defend:
Or Thou, fair Maia's winged Son, appear,
And mortal Shape, in Prime of Manhood, wear;
Declar'd the Guardian of th'imperial State,
Divine Avenger of great Cæsar's Fate:

Oh! late return to Heav'n, and may thy Reign
With lengthen'd Blessings fill thy wide Demaine;
Nor let thy People's Crimes provoke thy Flight,
On Air swift-rising to the Realms of Light.
Great Prince and Father of the State, receive
The noblest Triumphs, which thy Rome can give;
Nor let the Parthian, with unpunish'd Pride,
Beyond his Bounds, O Cæsar, dare to ride.

Ode III. To the Ship in which Virgil sailed to Athens.

So may the Cyprian Queen divine,
And the Twin-Stars with saving Lustre shine;
So may the Father of the Wind
All but the Western Gales propitious bind,
As you, dear Vessel, safe restore
Th'intrusted Pledge to the Athenian Shore,
And of my Soul the Partner save,
My much-lov'd Virgil from the raging Wave.
Or Oak, or Brass with triple Fold
That hardy Mortal's daring Breast enroll'd,
Who first, to the wild Ocean's Rage,
Launch'd the frail Bark, and heard the Winds engage
Tempestuous, when the South descends
Precipitate, and with the North contends;

Nor fear'd the Stars portending Rain,
Nor the loud Tyrant of the Western Main,
Of Power supreme the Storm to raise,
Or calmer smooth the Surface of the Seas.
What various Forms of Death could fright
The Man, who view'd with fix'd, unshaken Sight,
The floating Monsters, Waves enflam'd,
And Rocks, for shipwreck'd Fleets, ill-fam'd?
Jove has the Realms of Earth in vain
Divided by th'inhabitable Main,
If Ships profane, with fearless Pride,
Bound o'er th'inviolable Tide.
No Laws, or human or divine,
Can the presumptuous Race of Man confine.
Thus from the Sun's ethereal Beam
When bold Prometheus stole th'enlivening Flame,
Of Fevers dire a ghastly Brood,
Till then unknown, th'unhappy Fraud pursued;

On Earth their Horrours baleful spread,
And the pale Monarch of the Dead,
'Till then slow-moving to his Prey,
Precipitately rapid swept his Way.
Thus did the venturous Cretan dare
To tempt, with impious Wings, the Void of Air;
Through Hell Alcides urg'd his Course;
No Work too high for Man's audacious Force.
Our Folly would attempt the Skies,
And with gigantic Boldness impious rise;
Nor Jove, provok'd by mortal Pride,
Can lay his angry Thunderbolts aside.

Ode IV. To Sestius.

No more the Plowman loves his Fire;
No more the lowing Herds their Stalls desire,
While Earth her richest Verdure yields,
Nor hoary Frosts now whiten o'er the Fields.
Now joyous through the verdant Meads,
Beneath the rising Moon, fair Venus leads

Her various Dance, and with her Train
Of Nymphs and modest Graces treads the Plain,
While Vulcan's glowing Breath inspires
The toilsome Forge, and blows up all its Fires.
Now crown'd with Myrtle, or the Flow'rs,
Which the glad Earth from her free Bosom pours,
We'll offer, in the shady Grove,
Or Lamb, or Kid, as Pan shall best approve.
With equal Pace, impartial Fate
Knocks at the Palace, as the Cottage-Gate,
Nor should our Sum of Life extend
Our growing Hopes beyond their destin'd End.
When sunk to Pluto's shadowy Coasts,
Oppress'd with Darkness, and the fabled Ghosts,
No more the Dice shall there assign
To thee, the jovial Monarchy of Wine,
No more shall you the Fair admire,
The Virgin's Envy, and the Youth's Desire.

Ode V. To Pyrrha.

While liquid Odours round him breathe,
What Youth, the rosy Bower beneath,
Now courts thee to be kind?
Pyrrha, for whose unwary Heart
Do you, thus drest with careless Art,
Your yellow Tresses bind?

How often shall th'unpractis'd Youth
Of alter'd Gods, and injur'd Truth
With Tears, alas! complain?
How soon behold with wondering Eyes
The blackning Winds tempestuous rise,
And scowl along the Main?

While by his easy Faith betray'd,
He now enjoys thee, golden Maid,
Thus amiable and kind;
He fondly hopes that you shall prove
Thus ever vacant to his Love,
Nor heeds the faithless Wind.

Unhappy They, to whom untry'd
You shine, alas! in Beauty's Pride;
While I, now safe on Shore,
Will consecrate the pictur'd Storm,
And all my grateful Vows perform
To Neptune's saving Power.

Ode VI. To Agrippa.

Varius, who soars with Homer's Wing,
Shall brave Agrippa's Conquests sing,
Whate'er, inspir'd by his Command,
The Soldier dar'd on Sea or Land.
But we nor tempt with feeble Art
Achilles' unrelenting Heart,
Nor sage Ulysses in our Lays
Pursues his wandering through the Seas,
Nor ours in Tragic Strains to tell
How Pelops' cruel Offspring fell.

The Muse, who rules the peaceful Lyre,
Forbids me boldly to aspire
To thine or sacred Cæsar's Fame,
And hurt with feeble Song the Theme.
Who can describe the God of Fight
In Adamantine Armour bright,
Or Merion on the Trojan Shore
With Dust, how glorious, cover'd o'er,
Or Diomed, by Pallas' Aid,
To warring Gods an Equal made?

But whether loving, whether free,
With all our usual Levity,
Untaught to raise the martial String,
Of Feasts, and Virgin-Fights we sing;
Of Maids, who when bold Love assails,
Fierce in their Anger—pare their Nails.

Ode VII. To Munatius Plancus.

Let other Poets, in harmonious Lays,
Immortal Rhodes or Mitylene praise,
Or Ephesus, or Corinth's towery Pride,
Girt by the rolling Main on either Side;
Or Thebes or Delphos, for their Gods renown'd,
Or Tempe's Plains with flowery Honours crown'd.

There are, who sing in everlasting Strains
The Towers, where Wisdom's Virgin-Goddess reigns;
And ceaseless toiling court the trite Reward
Of Olive, pluck'd by every vulgar Bard.
For Juno's Fame, th'unnumber'd, tuneful Throng
With rich Mycenæ grace their favourite Song,
And Argos boast, of pregnant Glebe to feed
The warlike Horse, and animate the Breed:
But me, nor patient Lacedæmon charms,
Nor fair Larissa with such Transport warms,
As pure Albunea's far-resounding Source,
And rapid Anio, headlong in his Course,

Or Tibur, fenc'd by Groves from solar Beams,
And fruitful Orchats bath'd by ductile Streams.
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As Notus often, when the Welkin low'rs,
Sweeps off the Clouds, nor teems perpetual Show'rs,
So let thy Wisdom, free from anxious Strife,
In mellow Wine dissolve the Cares of Life,
Whether the Camp with Banners bright-display'd,
Or Tibur holds thee in its thick-wrought Shade.

When Teucer from his Sire and Country fled,
With Poplar Wreaths the Hero crown'd his Head
Reeking with Wine, and thus his Friends address'd,
Deep Sorrow brooding in each anxious Breast;
Bold let us follow through the foamy Tides,
Where Fortune, better than a Father, guides;

Avaunt Despair, when Teucer calls to Fame,
The same your Augur, and your Guide the same.
Another Salamis in foreign Clime,
With rival Pride shall raise her Head sublime.
So Phœbus nods; ye Sons of Valour true,
Full often try'd in Deeds of deadlier Hue,
To-day with Wine drive every Care away,
To-morrow tempt again the boundless Sea.

Ode VIII. To Lydia.

Tell me, Lydia, prithee tell,
Ah! why, by loving him too well,
Why you hasten to destroy
Young Sybaris, too amorous Boy?
Why does he hate the sunny Plain,
While he can Sun or Dust sustain?

Why no more, with martial Pride,
Amidst the youthful Battle ride,
And the Gallic Steed command
With bitted Curb and forming Hand?
More than Viper's baleful Blood
Why does he fear the yellow Flood,
Why detest the Wrestler's Oil,
While firm to bear the manly Toil?
Where are now the livid Scars
Of sportive, nor inglorious, Wars,
When for the Quoit, with Vigour thrown
Beyond the Mark, his Fame was known?
Tell us, why this fond Disguise,
In which like Thetis' Son he lies,
Ere unhappy Troy had shed
Her funeral Sorrows for the Dead,
Lest a manly Dress should fire
His Soul to War, and Carnage dire.

Ode IX. To Thaliarchus.

Behold Soracte's airy Height,
See how it stands an Heap of Snow!
Behold the Winter's hoary Weight
Oppress the labouring Woods below!
And, by the Season's icy Hand
Congeal'd, the lazy Rivers stand.

Now melt away the Winter's Cold,
And larger pile the chearful Fire;
Bring down the Vintage four-year-old,
Whose mellow'd Heat can Mirth inspire;
Then to the Guardian Powers divine
Careless the rest of Life resign:

For when the warring Winds arise,
And o'er the fervid Ocean sweep,
They speak—and lo! the Tempest dies
On the smooth Bosom of the Deep;
Unshaken stands the aged Grove,
And feels the Providence of Jove.

To-morrow with its Cares despise,
And make the present Hour your own,
Be swift to catch it as it flies,
And score it up as clearly won;
Nor let your Youth disdain to prove
The Joys of Dancing, and of Love.

Beneath the grateful Evening-Shade,
The public Walks, the public Park,
An Assignation sweetly made
With gentle Whispers in the Dark,
While Age morose thy Vigour spares,
Be these thy Pleasures, these thy Cares.

The Laugh, that from the Corner flies,
The sportive Fair-one shall betray;
Then boldly snatch the joyful Prize;
A Ring or Bracelet tear away,
While She, not too severely coy,
Strugling shall yield the willing Toy.

Ode X. Hymn to Mercury.

Thou God of Wit (from Atlas sprung)
Who by persuasive Power of Tongue,
And graceful Exercise refin'd
The savage Race of human Kind;
Hail, winged Messenger of Jove,
And all th'immortal Powers above,
Sweet Parent of the bending Lyre,
Thy Praise shall all its Sounds inspire.

Artful, and cunning to conceal
Whate'er in sportive Theft you steal;
When from the God, who gilds the Pole,
Ev'n yet a Boy his Herds you stole,
With angry Voice the threatning Pow'r
Bad thee thy fraudful Prey restore,
But of his Quiver too beguil'd,
Pleas'd with the Theft Apollo smil'd.

You were the wealthy Priam's Guide
When safe from Agamemnon's Pride,
Through hostile Camps, which round him spread
Their watchful Fires, his Way he sped.
Unspotted Spirits you consign
To blissful Seats and Joys divine,
And powerful with thy golden Wand
The light, unbodied Croud command;
Thus grateful does thy Office prove
To Gods below and Gods above.

Ode XI. To Leuconoe.

Strive not, Leuconoë, to pry
Into the secret Will of Fate,
Nor impious Magic vainly try,
To know our Lives' uncertain Date.

Whether th'indulgent Power divine
Hath many Seasons yet in store,
Or this the latest Winter thine,
Which breaks its Waves against the Shore,

Thy Life with wiser Arts be crown'd,
Thy philter'd Wines abundant pour;
The lengthen'd Hope with Prudence bound
Proportion'd to the flying Hour:

Even while we talk in careless Ease,
Our envious Minutes wing their Flight;
Instant the fleeting Pleasure seize,
Nor trust to-morrow's doubtful Light.

Ode XII. Hymn to Jove.

What Man, what Hero, on the tuneful Lyre,
Or sharp-ton'd Flute, will Clio chuse to raise
Deathless to Fame? What God? whose hallow'd Name
The sportive Image of the Voice
Shall through the Shades of Helicon resound,
On Pindus, or on Hæmus ever cool,
From whence the Forests in Confusion wild
To vocal Orpheus urg'd their Way;
Who by his Mother's Art, harmonious Muse,
With soft Delay could stop the falling Streams,
And winged Winds; with Strings of Concert sweet
Powerful the listening Oaks to lead.
Claims not th'eternal Sire his wonted Praise?
Awful who reigns o'er Gods and Men supreme,
Who Sea and Earth and universal Globe
With grateful Change of Seasons rules;

From whom no Being of superiour Power,
Nothing of equal, second Glory springs,
Yet first of all his Progeny divine
Immortal Honours Pallas claims:
God of the Vine in Deeds of Valour bold,
Fair Virgin-Huntress of the savage Race,
And Phœbus, dreadful with unerring Dart,
Nor will I not your Praise proclaim.
Alcides' Labours, and fair Leda's Twins
Fam'd for the rapid Race, for Wrestling fam'd,
Shall grace my Song; soon as whose Star benign
Through the fierce Tempest shines serene,
Swift from the Rocks down foams the broken Surge,
Hush'd fall the Winds, the driving Clouds disperse,
And all the threatening Waves, so will the Gods,
Smooth sink upon the peaceful Deep.
Here stops the Song, doubtful whom next to praise,
Or Romulus, or Numa's peaceful Reign,
The haughty Ensigns of Tarquinius' Throne,
Or Cato, glorious in his Fall.

Grateful in higher Tone the Muse shall sing
The Fate of Regulus, the Scaurian Race,
And Paulus, 'midst the Waste of Cannæ's Field
How greatly prodigal of Life!
Form'd by the Hand of Penury severe
In Dwellings suited to their small Demaine,
Fabricius, Curius, and Camillus rose;
To Deeds of martial Glory rose.
Marcellus, like a youthful Tree of Growth
Insensible, high shoots his spreading Fame,
And like the Moon, the feebler Fires among,
Conspicuous shines the Julian Star,

Saturnian Jove, Parent and Guardian God
Of human Race, to Thee the Fates assign
The Care of Cæsar's Reign; to thine alone
Inferiour let his Empire rise;
Whether the Parthian's formidable Powers,
Or farthest India's oriental Sons,
With suppliant Pride beneath his Triumph fall,
Wide o'er a willing World shall He
Contented reign, and to thy Throne shall bend
Submissive. Thou in thy tremendous Car
Shalt shake Olympus' Head, and at our Groves
Polluted, hurl thy dreadful Bolts.

Ode XIII. To Lydia.

Ah! when on Telephus his Charms,
His rosy Neck, and waxen Arms,
My Lydia's Praise unceasing dwells,
What gloomy Spleen my Bosom swells?

On my pale Cheek the Colour dies,
My Reason in Confusion flies,
And the down-stealing Tear betrays
The lingering Flame that inward preys.
I burn, when in Excess of Wine
He soils those snowy Arms of thine,
Or on thy Lips the fierce-fond Boy
Marks with his Teeth the furious Joy.

If yet my Voice can reach your Ear,
Hope not to find the Youth sincere,
Cruel who hurts the fragrant Kiss,
Which Venus bathes with nectar'd Bliss.
Thrice happy They, in pure Delights
Whom Love with mutual Bonds unites,
Unbroken by Complaints or Strife
Even to the latest Hours of Life.

Ode XIV. To the Republic.

Ill-fated Vessel! shall the Waves again
Tempestuous bear thee to the faithless Main?
What would thy Madness, thus with Storms to sport?
Ah! yet with Caution seize the friendly Port.

Behold thy naked Decks; the Southern Blast,
Hark! how it whistles through thy rending Mast!
Nor without Ropes thy Keel can longer brave
The rushing Fury of th'imperious Wave:
Torn are thy Sails, thy Guardian Gods are lost,
Whom you might call in future Tempests tost.
What though majestic in your Pride you stood
A noble Daughter of the Pontic Wood,
You now may vainly boast an empty Name,
Or Birth conspicuous in the Rolls of Fame;
The Mariner, when Storms around him rise,
No longer on a painted Stern relies.
Ah! yet take heed, lest these new Tempests sweep
In sportive Rage thy Glories to the Deep.

Thou late my deep Anxiety and Fear,
And now my fond Desire and tender Care,
Ah! yet take heed, avoid those fatal Seas,
Which roll among the shining Cyclades.

Ode XV. The Prophecy of Nereus.

When the persidious Shepherd bore
The Spartan Dame to Asia's Shore,
Nereus the rapid Winds oppress'd,
And calm'd them to unwilling Rest,

That he might sing the dreadful Fate,
Which should the guilty Lovers wait.

Fatal to Priam's ancient Sway
You bear th'ill-omen'd Fair away,
For soon shall Greece in Arms arise
Deep-sworn to break thy nuptial Ties.
What Toils do Men and Horse sustain!
What Carnage loads the Dardan Plain!
Pallas prepares the bounding Car,
The Shield and Helm and Rage of War.

Though proud of Venus' guardian Care,
In vain you comb your flowing Hair;
In vain you sweep th'unwarlike String
And tender Airs to Females sing;
For though the Dart may harmless prove
(The Dart, that frights the Bed of Love)

Though you escape the Noise of Fight,
Nor Ajax can o'ertake thy Flight,
Yet shalt Thou, infamous of Lust,
Soil those adulterous Hairs in Dust.

Look back and see, with furious Pace
The Ruin of the Trojan Race
Ulysses comes; and sage in Years
Fam'd Nestor, hoary Chief, appears:
Intrepid Teucer sweeps the Field,
And Sthenelus, in Battle skill'd;
Or skill'd to guide with steady Rein,
And pour his Chariot o'er the Plain.
Undaunted Merion shalt Thou feel,
While Diomed with furious Steel,
In Arms superiour to his Sire,
Burns after Thee with martial Fire.
As when a Stag at Distance spies
A prowling Wolf, aghast he flies
Of Pasture heedless: So shall you
High-panting fly when they pursue.
Not such the Promises you made,
Which Helen's easy Heart betray'd.

Achilles' Fleet with short Delay
Vengeful protracts the fatal Day,
But when ten rolling Years expire,
Thy Troy shall blaze in Grecian Fire.

Ode XVI. To Tyndaris.

O Tyndaris, whose blooming Beauty warms
The kindling Soul beyond thy Mother's Charms,
Give to my bold Lampoons what Fate you please,
To wasting Flames condemn'd, or angry Seas.
Yet oh! remember, nor the God of Wine,
Nor Pythian Phœbus from his inmost Shrine,
Nor Dindymene, nor her Priests possest,
Can with their sounding Cymbals shake the Breast,

Like furious Anger in its gloomy Vein,
Which neither temper'd Sword, nor raging Main,
Nor Fire wide-wasting, nor tumultuous Jove
Rushing in baleful Thunders from above
Can tame to Fear. Thus sings the Poet's Lay,—
Prometheus to inform his nobler Clay
Their various Passions chose from every Beast,
And fir'd with Lyon-Rage the human Breast.
From Anger dire the Tragic Horrours rose,
Which crush'd Thyestes with a Weight of Woes;
From hence proud Cities date their utter Falls,
When insolent in Ruin o'er their Walls
The wrathful Soldier drags the hostile Plow,
That haughty Mark of total Overthrow.

Me too the Heat of Youth to Madness fir'd,
And with Iambic rapid Rage inspir'd:
But now repentant shall the Muse again
To softer Numbers tune her melting Strain,
So Thou recall thy Taunts, thy Wrath controul,
Resume thy Love, and give me back my Soul.

Ode XVII. To Tyndaris.

Pan from Arcadia's Heights descends
To visit oft my rural Seat,
And here my tender Goats defends
From rainy Winds, and Summer's fiery Heat;

For when the Vales wide-spreading round,
The sloping Hills, and polish'd Rocks
With his harmonious Pipe resound,
In fearless Safety graze my wandering Flocks;

In Safety through the woody Brake
The latent Shrubs and Thyme explore,
Nor longer dread the speckled Snake,
And tremble at the martial Wolf no more.

Their Poet to the Gods is dear,
They love my Piety and Muse,
And all our rural Honours here
Their flowery Wealth around Thee shall diffuse.

Here shall You tune Anacreon's Lyre
Beneath a shady Mountain's Brow,
To sing frail Circe's guilty Fire,
And chaste Penelope's unbroken Vow.

Far from the burning Dog-Star's Rage
Here shall You quaff our harmless Wine;
Nor here shall Mars intemperate wage
Rude War with Him, who rules the jovial Vine.

Nor Cyrus' bold Suspicions fear;
Not on thy Softness shall he lay
His desperate Hand thy Clothes to tear,
Or brutal snatch thy festal Crown away.

Ode XVIII. To Varus.

Round Catilus' Walls, or in Tibur's rich Soil,
To plant the glad Vine be my Varus' first Toil;
For God hath propos'd to the Wretch, who's athirst,
To drink, or with Heart-gnawing Cares to be curst.
Of War, or of Want, who e'er prates o'er his Wine?
For 'tis thine, Father Bacchus, bright Venus, 'tis thine,

To charm all his Cares; yet that no one may pass
The Freedom and Mirth of a temperate Glass,
Let us think on the Lapithæ's Quarrels so dire,
And the Thracians, whom Wine can to Madness inspire:
Insatiate of Liquor when glow their full Veins,
No Distinction of Vice, or of Virtue remains.

Great God of the Vine, who dost Candour approve,
I ne'er will thy Statues profanely remove;
I ne'er will thy Rites so mysterious betray
To the broad-glaring Eye of the Tale-telling Day.
Oh stop the loud Cymbal, the Cornet's Alarms,
Whose Sound, when the Bacchanal's Bosom it warms,
Arouses Self-love by Blindness misled,
And Vanity lifting aloft the light Head,
And Honour of prodigal Spirit, that shows,
Transparent as Glass, all the Secrets it knows.

Ode XIX. On Glycera.

Venus, who gave the Cupids Birth,
And the resistless God of Wine,
With the gay Power of wanton Mirth,
Now bid my Heart its Peace resign;
Again for Glycera I burn,
And all my long-forgotten Flames return.

As Parian Marble pure and bright
The shining Maid my Bosom warms;
Her Face too dazzling for the Sight,
Her sweet coquetting—how it charms!
Whole Venus rushing through my Veins
No longer in her favourite Cyprus reigns;

No longer suffers me to write
Of Scythian fierce in martial Deed,
Or Parthian urging in his Flight
The Battle with reverted Steed;
Such Themes she will no more approve,
Nor aught that sounds impertinent to Love.

Here let the living Altar rise
Adorn'd with every Herb and Flower;
Here flame the Incense to the Skies,
And purest Wine's Libation pour;
Due Honours to the Goddess paid,
Soft sinks to willing Love the yielding Maid.

Ode XX. To Mæcenas.

A Poet's Beverage, humbly cheap
(Should great Mæcenas be my Guest)
The Vintage of the Sabine Grape,
But yet in sober Cups shall crown the Feast:

'Twas rack'd into a Grecian Cask,
Its rougher Juice to melt away,
I seal'd it too—a pleasing Task!
With annual Joy to mark the glorious Day,

When in applausive Shouts thy Name
Spread from the Theatre around,
Floating on thy own Tiber's Stream,
And Echo, playful Nymph, return'd the Sound.

From the Cæcubian Vintage prest
For you shall flow the racy Wine;
But ah! my meagre Cup's unblest
With the rich Formian, or Falernian Vine.

Ode XXII. To Aristius Fuscus.

The Man, who knows not guilty Fear,
Nor wants the Bow, nor pointed Spear,
Nor needs, while innocent of Heart,
The Quiver teeming with the poison'd Dart,

Whether through Lybia's burning Sands
His Journey leads, or Scythia's Lands
Inhospitable Waste of Snows,
Or where the fabulous Hydaspes flows:

For musing on my lovely Maid
While careless in the Woods I stray'd,
A Wolf—how dreadful—cross'd my Way,
Yet fled—he fled from his defenceless Prey:

No Beast of such portentous Size
In warlike Daunia's Forests lies,
Nor such the tawny Lion reigns
Fierce on his native Africk's thirsty Plains.

Place me, where never Summer Breeze
Unbinds the Glebe, or warms the Trees;
Where ever lowering Clouds appear,
And angry Jove deforms th'inclement Year:

Place me beneath the burning Ray
Where rolls the rapid Car of Day;
Love and the Nymph shall charm my Toils,
The Nymph, who sweetly speaks and sweetly smiles.

Ode XXIII. To Chloe.

Chloe flies me like a Fawn,
Which through some sequester'd Lawn
Panting seeks the Mother-Deer,
Not without a panic Fear
Of the gentle-breathing Breeze,
And the Motion of the Trees.
If the curling Leaves but shake,
If a Lizard stir the Brake,
Frighted it begins to freeze
Trembling both at Heart and Knees.
But not like a Tyger dire,
Nor a Lion fraught with Ire,
I pursue my lovely Game
To destroy thy tender Frame.
Haste thee, leave thy Mother's Arms,
Ripe for Love are all thy Charms.

Ode XXIV. To Virgil.

Why should we stop the tender Tear?
Why blush to weep for one so dear?
Thou Muse of melting Voice and Lyre,
Do thou the mournful Song inspire.
Quinctilius—sunk to endless Rest,
With Death's eternal Sleep opprest!
Oh! when shall Faith of Soul sincere,
Of Justice pure the Sister fair,
And Modesty, unspotted Maid,
And Truth in artless Guise array'd,
Among the Race of human Kind
An Equal to Quinctilius find?

How did the good, the virtuous mourn,
And pour their Sorrows o'er his Urn?
But, Virgil, thine the loudest Strain,
Yet all thy pious Grief is vain.
In vain do you the Gods implore
Thy lov'd Quinctilius to restore,
Whom on far other Terms They gave,
By Nature fated to the Grave.
What though you can the Lyre command,
And sweep its Tones with softer Hand
Than Orpheus, whose harmonious Song
Once drew the listening Trees along,
Yet ne'er returns the vital Heat
The shadowy Form to animate;

For when the Ghost-compelling God
Forms his black Troops with horrid Rod,
He will not, lenient to the Breath
Of Prayer, unbar the Gates of Death.
'Tis hard: but Patience must endure,
And sooth the Woes it cannot cure.

Ode XXV. To Lydia.

The wanton Herd of Rakes profest
Thy Windows rarely now molest
With midnight Raps, or break thy Rest
With Riot.

The Door, that kindly once could move
The plyant Hinge, begins to love
Its Threshold, and no more shall prove
Unquiet.

Now less and less assail thine Ear
These Plaints, “Ah sleepest thou my Dear,
“While I whole Nights thy True-love here
“Am dying?”

You in your Turn shall weep the Taunts
Of young and insolent Gallants,
In some dark Alley's Midnight Haunts
Late-plying:

While raging Tempests chill the Skies,
And burning Lust (such Lust as tries
The madding Dams of Horses) fries
Thy Liver,

Our Youth, regardless of thy Frown,
Their Heads with fresher Wreaths shall crown,
And fling thy wither'd Garlands down
The River.

Ode XXVI. To his Muse.

While in the Muse's Friendship blest,
Nor Fears nor Grief disturb my Breast;
Bear them, ye vagrant Winds, away,
And drown them in the Cretan Sea.
Careless am I, or who shall reign
The Tyrant of the frozen Plain,

Or with what anxious Fear opprest
Heaves Tiridates' panting Breast.
Sweet Muse, who lov'st the Virgin Spring,
Hither thy sunny Flowrets bring,
And let thy richest Chaplet shed
Its Fragrance round my Lamia's Head,
For nought avails the Poet's Praise,
Unless the Muse inspire his Lays.
Now string the tuneful Lyre again,
Let all thy Sisters raise the Strain,
And consecrate to deathless Fame
My lov'd, my Lamia's honour'd Name.

Ode XXVII. To his Companions.

With Glasses, made for gay Delight,
'Tis Thracian, savage Rage to fight.
With such intemperate, bloody Fray
Fright not the modest God away.
Monstrous! to see the Dagger shine
Amid the chearful Joys of Wine.
Here bid this impious Clamour cease,
And press the social Couch in Peace.
Say, shall I drink this heady Wine
Prest from the rough Falernian Vine?
Instant, let yonder Youth impart
The tender Story of his Heart,
By what dear Wound he blissful dies,
And whence the gentle Arrow flies.
What! does the bashful Boy deny?
Then if I drink it let me die.
Who e'er she be, a generous Flame
Can never know the Blush of Shame.
Thy Breast no slavish Venus fires,
But fair, ingenuous Love inspires.

Then safely whisper in my Ear,
For all such Trusts are sacred here.

Ah! worthy of a better Flame!
Unhappy Youth! is She the Dame?
Ah luckless Youth! how art Thou lost,
In what a Sea of Troubles tost!
What Drugs, what Witchcraft, or what Charms,
What God can free thee from her Arms?
Scarce Pegasus can disengage
Thy Heart from this Chimæra's Rage.

Ode XXVIII. A Mariner and the Ghost of Archytas.

Mariner.
Archytas, what avails thy nice Survey
Of Ocean's countless Sands, of Earth and Sea?
In vain thy mighty Spirit once could soar
To Orbs celestial and their Course explore:
If here, upon the tempest-beaten Strand,
You lie confin'd, 'till some more liberal Hand
Shall strow the pious Dust in funeral Rite,
And wing Thee to the boundless Realms of Light.

Ghost.
Even He, who did with Gods the Banquet share,
Tithonus, rais'd to breathe celestial Air,
And Minos, Jove's own Counsellor of State,
All These have yielded to the Power of Fate.

Mariner.
Even your own Sage, whose monumental Shield,
Borne through the Terrours of the Trojan Field,
Prov'd that alone the mouldering Body dies,
And Souls immortal from our Ashes rise,
Even he a second Time resign'd his Breath
Sent headlong to the gloomy Realms of Death.

Ghost.

Not meanly skill'd, even by your own Applause,
In moral Truth and Nature's secret Laws.

One endless Night for whole Mankind remains,
And once we all must tread the shadowy Plains.
In horrid Pomp of War the Soldier dies;
The Sailor in the greedy Ocean lies;

Thus Age and Youth promiscuous crowd the Tomb;
No mortal Head can shun th'impending Doom.

When sets Orion's Star, the Winds, that sweep
The raging Waves, o'erwhelm'd me in the Deep:
Nor Thou, my Friend, refuse with impious Hand
A little Portion of this wandering Sand
To these my poor Remains; so may the Storm
Rage o'er the Woods, nor Ocean's Face deform:
May gracious Jove with Wealth thy Toils repay,
And Neptune guard Thee through the watry Way.

Thy guiltless Race this bold Neglect shall mourn,
And Thou shalt feel the just Returns of Scorn.
My Curses shall pursue the guilty Deed,
And all, in vain, thy richest Victims bleed.
Whate'er thy Haste, oh! let my Prayer prevail,
Thrice strow the Sand, then hoist the flying Sail.

101

Ode XXIX. To Iccius.

Canst Thou with envious Eye behold
The blest Arabia's treasur'd Gold?
Will Iccius boldly take the Field,
And teach Sabæa's Kings to yield?
Or meditate the dreadful Mede
In Chains triumphantly to lead?

Should You her hapless Lover slay,
What captive Maid shall own thy Sway?
What courtly Youth with essenc'd Hair
Shall at thy Board the Goblet bear,
Skilful with his great Father's Art
To wing with Death the pointed Dart?

Who shall deny that Streams ascend,
And Tiber's Currents backward bend,
While you have all our Hopes betray'd;
You, that far other Promise made;
When all thy Volumes, learned Store!
The Treasures of Socratic Lore,
Once bought at mighty Price, in vain,
Are sent to purchase Arms in Spain?

103

Ode XXX. To Venus.

Queen of Beauty, Queen of Smiles,
Leave, oh! leave thy favourite Isles:
A Temple rises to thy Fame,
Where Glycera invokes thy Name,
And bids the fragrant Incense flame.

With Thee bring thy love-warm Son,
The Graces bring with flowing Zone,
The Nymphs, and jocund Mercury,
And smiling Youth, who without Thee
Is nought but savage Liberty.

105

Ode XXXI. To Apollo.

When at Apollo's hallow'd Shrine
The Poet hails the Power divine,
What is the Blessing he implores
While he the first Libation pours?

He nor desires the swelling Grain,
That yellows o'er Sardinia's Plain;
Nor the fair Herds that lowing feed
On warm Calabria's flowery Mead;
Nor Ivory of spotless Shine,
Nor Gold forth-flaming from its Mine;
Nor the rich Fields, that Liris laves,
And eats away with silent Waves.

Let others quaff the racy Wine
To whom kind Fortune gives the Vine;
The golden Goblet let Him drain,
Who venturous plows th'Atlantic Main,
Blest with three safe Returns a Year,
For He to every God is dear.

107

To Me boon Nature frankly yields
Her wholesome Sallad from the Fields,
Nor ask I more than Sense and Health
Still to enjoy my present Wealth.
From Age and all its Weakness free,
O Son of Jove, preserv'd by Thee,
Give me to strike the tuneful Lyre,
And Thou my latest Song inspire.

Ode XXXII. To his Lyre.

If beneath the careless Shade,
Harmonious Lyre, with Thee I've play'd,
Cæsar's Voice obedient hear,
And for more than many a Year,
Now the Roman Muse inspire,
And warm the Song with Grecian Fire;
Such as when Alcæus sung,
Who fierce in War thy Music strung,
When he heard the Battle roar,
Or almost shipwreck'd reach'd the Shore.

109

Wine and the Muses were his Theme,
And Venus, Laughter-loving Dame,
With Cupid, ever by her Side,
And Lycus, form'd in Beauty's Pride,
With his Hair of jetty Dye,
And the black Lustre of his Eye.
Charming Shell, Apollo's Love,
How pleasing to the Feasts of Jove!
Hear thy Poet's solemn Prayer,
Thou Softner of each anxious Care.

Ode XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

No more in elegiac Strain
Of cruel Glycera complain,
Though she resign her faithless Charms
To a new Lover's younger Arms.

111

The Maid, for lovely Forehead fam'd,
With Cyrus' Beauties is enflam'd;
While Pholoë, of haughty Charms,
The panting Breast of Cyrus warms;
But Wolves and Goats shall sooner prove
The Pleasures of forbidden Love,
Than she her Virgin Honour stain,
And not the filthy Rake disdain.

So Venus wills, whose Power controuls
The fond Affections of our Souls;
With sportive Cruelty she binds
Unequal Forms, unequal Minds.
Thus, when a better Mistress strove
To warm my youthful Breast to Love,
Yet could a Slave-born Maid detain
My willing Heart in pleasing Chain,
Though fiercer She, than Waves that roar
Winding the rough Calabrian Shore.

113

Ode XXXIV.

[A Fugitive from Heaven and Prayer]

A Fugitive from Heaven and Prayer,
I mock'd at all religious Fear,
Deep-scienced in the mazy Lore
Of mad Philosophy; but now
Hoist Sail, and back my Voyage plow
To that blest Harbour, which I left before.

For lo! that awful heavenly Sire,
Who frequent cleaves the Clouds with Fire,
Parent of Day, immortal Jove!
Late through the floating Fields of Air,
The Face of Heaven serene and fair,
His thundering Steeds and winged Chariot drove;

115

When, at the bursting of his Flames,
The ponderous Earth and vagrant Streams,
Infernal Styx, the dire Abode
Of hateful Tænarus profound,
And Atlas to his utmost Bound,
Trembled beneath the Terrours of the God.

The Hand of Jove can crush the Proud
Down to the meanest of the Croud,
And raise the lowest in his stead;
But rapid Fortune pulls him down,
And snatches his imperial Crown,
To place, not fix it, on another's Head.

Ode XXXV. To Fortune.

Goddess, whom Antium, beauteous Town, obeys,
Whose various Will with instant Power can raise
Frail Mortals from the Depths of low Despair,
Or change proud Triumphs to the funeral Tear;

117

Thee the poor Farmer, who with ceaseless Pain
Labours the Soil; Thee, Mistress of the Main,
The Sailor, who with fearless Spirit dares
The rising Tempest, courts with anxious Prayers:

Thee the rough Dacian, Thee the vagrant Band
Of field-born Scythians, Latium's warlike Land,
Cities and Nations, Mother-Queens revere,
And purple Tyranny beholds with Fear.

Nor in thy Rage with Foot destructive spurn
This standing Pillar and its Strength o'erturn;
Nor let the Nations rise in bold Uproar,
From Peace arise, to break th'imperial Power.

With solemn Pace and firm, in awful State
Before Thee stalks inexorable Fate,
And grasps impailing Nails and Wedges dread,
The Hook tormentous and the melted Lead:

119

Thee Hope and Honour, now, alas, how rare!
With white enrob'd, attend with duteous Care,
When from the Palace of the Great you fly
In angry Mood and Garb of Misery.

Not such the Croud of light Companions prove,
Nor the false Mistress of a wanton Love,
Faithless who wait the lowest Dregs to drain,
Nor Friendship's equal Yoke with Strength sustain.

Propitious guard the Prince, who bold explores
His venturous Way to farthest Britain's Shores;
Our new rais'd Troops be thy peculiar Care,
Who dreadful to the East our Banners bear.

Alas! the shameless Scars! the guilty Deeds,
When by a Brother's Hand a Brother bleeds!
What Crimes have we, an iron Age, not dar'd?
Through Reverence of Gods what Altar spar'd?

Oh! that our Swords with civil Gore distain'd,
And in the Sight of Gods and Men profan'd—
Oh forge again, dread Queen, the temper'd Steel,
And let our Foes the pointed Vengeance feel.

121

Ode XXXVI.

[With Incense heap the sacred Fire]

With Incense heap the sacred Fire,
And bolder strike the willing Lyre.
Now let the Heifer's votive Blood
Pour to the Gods its purple Flood;
Those guardian Gods, from farthest Spain
Who send our Numida again.
A thousand Kisses now He gives,
A thousand Kisses He receives,
But Lamia most his Friendship proves,
Lamia with Tenderness he loves.
At School their youthful Love began,
Where they together rose to Man.
With happiest Marks the Day shall shine,
Nor want th'abundant Joy of Wine;
Like Salian Priests the Dance we'll lead,
And many a mazy Measure tread.
Now let the Thracian Goblet foam,
Nor in the breathless Draught o'ercome
Shall Bassus yield his boasted Name
To Damalis of tipling Fame:
Here let the Rose and Lilly shed
Their short-liv'd Bloom; let Parsley spread

123

Its living Verdure o'er the Feast,
And crown with mingled Sweets the Guest:
On Damalis each amorous Boy
Shall gaze with Eyes that flow with Joy,
While she, as curls the Ivy-Plant,
Shall twine luxuriant round her new Gallant.

Ode XXXVII. To his Companions.

Now let the Bowl with Wine be crown'd,
Now lighter dance the mazy Round;
And let the sacred Couch be stor'd
With the rich Dainties of a Salian Board.

Sooner to draw the mellow'd Wine
Prest from the rich Cæcubian Vine
Were impious Mirth: while yet elate
The Queen breath'd Ruin to the Roman State.

125

Surrounded by a tainted Train
Of Men effeminate, obscene,
She rav'd of Empire—nothing less—
Vast in her Hopes and giddy with Success.

But hardly rescued from the Flames,
One lonely Ship her Fury tames;
While Cæsar with impelling Oar
Pursued her flying from the Latian Shore:

Her, with Ægyptian Wine inspir'd,
With the full Draught to Madness fir'd,
Augustus sober'd into Tears,
And turn'd her Visions into real Fears.

As darting sudden from above
The Hawk attacks a tender Dove:
Or sweeping Huntsman drives the Hare
O'er wide Æmonia's icy Desarts drear;

So Cæsar through the Billows prest
To lead in Chains the fatal Pest:
But she a nobler Fate explor'd,
Nor Woman-like beheld the deathful Sword.

Unmov'd she saw her State destroy'd,
Her Palace now a lonely Void,
Nor with her profligated Host
For Succour fled to some far distant Coast.

127

With fearless Hand she dar'd to grasp
The Writhings of the wrathful Asp,
And suck the Poison through her Veins,
Resolv'd on Death and fiercer from its Pains;

Then scorning to be led the Boast
Of mighty Cæsar's naval Host,
And arm'd with more than mortal Spleen
Defrauds a Triumph and expires a Queen.

Ode XXXVIII. To his Slave.

I tell thee, Boy, that I detest
The Grandeur of a Persian Feast,
Nor for Me the Linden's Rind
Shall the flowery Chaplet bind;
Then search not where the curious Rose
Beyond his Season loitering grows,
But beneath the mantling Vine
While I quaff the flowing Wine,
The Myrtle's Wreath shall crown our Brows,
While You shall wait and I carouze.

End of the First Book.

129

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

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.

Ode II. To Crispus Sallustius.

Gold hath no Lustre of its own,
It shines by temperate Use alone,
And when in Earth it hoarded lies
My Sallust can the Mass despise.

137

With never-failing Wing shall Fame
To latest Ages bear the Name
Of Proculeius, who could prove
A Father, in a Brother's Love.
By Virtue's Precepts to controul
The thirsty Cravings of the Soul
Is over wider Realms to reign,
Unenvied Monarch, than if Spain
You could to distant Lybia join,
And both the Carthages were thine.

The Dropsy, by Indulgence nurs'd,
Pursues us with increasing Thirst,
Till Art expels the Cause, and drains
The watry Languor from our Veins.
True Virtue can the Croud unteach
Their false, mistaken Forms of Speech;
Virtue, to Crouds a Foe profest,
Disdains to number with the Blest,
Phraates by his Slaves ador'd
And to the Parthian Crown restor'd,

139

But gives the Diadem, the Throne,
And laurel Wreath to Him alone,
Who can a treasur'd Mass of Gold
With firm, undazzled Eye behold.

Ode III. To Dellius.

In arduous Hours an equal Mind maintain,
Nor let your Spirit rise too high,
Though Fortune kindly change the Scene,
Alas! my Dellius, Thou wert born to die,

Whether your Life in Sadness pass,
Or wing'd with Pleasure glide away;
Whether, reclining on the Grass,
You bless with choicer Wine the festal Day,

141

Where the pale Poplar and the Pine
Expel th'inhospitable Beam;
In kindly Shades their Branches twine,
And toils, obliquely swift, the purling Stream.

There pour your Wines, your Odours shed,
Bring forth the rosy, short-liv'd Flower,
While Fate yet spins thy mortal Thread,
While Youth and Fortune give th'indulgent Hour.

Your purchas'd Woods, your House of State,
Your Villa wash'd by Tiber's Wave,
You must, my Dellius, yield to Fate,
And to your Heir these high-pil'd Treasures leave.

Though you could boast a Monarch's Birth;
Though Wealth unbounded round Thee flows;
Though poor, and sprung from vulgar Earth,
No Pity for his Victim Pluto knows,

For all must tread the Paths of Fate,
And ever shakes the mortal Urn,
Whose Lot embarks us, soon or late,
On Charon's Boat, ah! never to return.

143

Ode IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

Blush not, my Phoceus, though a Dame
Of servile State thy Breast enflame;
A Slave could stern Achilles move,
And bend his haughty Soul to Love:
Ajax, invincible in Arms,
Was captiv'd by his Captive's Charms:
Atrides, midst his Triumphs mourn'd,
And for a ravish'd Virgin burn'd,
What Time, the fierce Barbarian Bands
Fell by Peleides' conquering Hands,
And Troy (her Hector swept away)
Became to Greece an easier Prey.

Who knows, when Phyllis is your Bride,
To what fine Folk you'll be allied?
Her Parents dear, of gentle Race,
Shall not their Son-in-law disgrace.
She sprung from Kings, or nothing less,
And weeps the Family's Distress.

145

Think not that such a charming She
Can of the sordid Vulgar be;
To shameless, prostituted Earth,
Think not that Phyllis owes her Birth,
Who with such Firmness could disdain
The Force and Flattery of Gain.

Yet, after all, believe me, Friend,
I can with Innocence commend
Her blooming Face, her snowy Arms,
Her taper Leg, and all her Charms,
For, trembling on to forty Years
My Age forbids all jealous Fears.

Ode V.

[See, thy Heifer's yet unbroke]

See, thy Heifer's yet unbroke
To the Labours of the Yoke,
Nor hath Strength enough to prove
Such impetuous Weight of Love.
Round the Fields her Fancy strays,
O'er the Mead she sportive plays,
Or beneath the sultry Beam
Cools her in the passing Stream,
Or with frisking Steerlings young
Sports the sallow Groves among.

147

Do not then commit a Rape
On the crude, unmellow'd Grape:
Autumn soon, of various Dyes,
Shall with kinder Warmth arise,
Bid the livid Clusters glow,
And a riper Purple show.
Time to Her shall count each Day,
Which from You it takes away;
Lalage, with forward Charms,
Soon shall rush into your Arms;
Pholoë, the flying Fair,
Shall not then with Her compare;
Nor the Maid of Bosom bright,
Like the Moon's unspotted Light,
O'er the Waves, with silver Rays,
When the floating Lustre plays:
Nor the Cnidian fair and young,
Who, the Virgin Choir among,
Might deceive, in Female Guise,
Strangers, though extremely wise,
With the Difference between
Sexes hardly to be seen,
With his Hair of flowing Grace,
And his boyish, girlish Face.

149

Ode VI. To Septimius.

Septimius, who hast vow'd to go
With Horace even to farthest Spain,
Or see the fierce Cantabrian Foe,
Untaught to bear the Roman Chain,
Or the barbaric Syrts, with mad Recoil
Where Mauritanian Billows ceaseless boil;

May Tibur to my latest Hours
Afford a kind and calm Retreat;
Tibur, beneath whose lofty Towers
The Grecians fix'd their blissful Seat;
There may my Labours end, my Wandering cease,
There all my Toils of Warfare rest in Peace.

But should the partial Fates refuse
That purer Air to let me breathe,
Galesus, gentle Stream, I'll chuse,
Where Flocks of richest Fleeces bathe:
Phalantus there his rural Sceptre sway'd,
Uncertain Offspring of a Spartan Maid.

151

No Spot so joyous smiles to Me
Of this wide Globe's extended Shores;
Where nor the Labours of the Bee
Yield to Hymettus' golden Stores,
Nor the green Berry of Venafran Soil
Swells with a riper Flood of fragrant Oil.

There Jove his kindest Gifts bestows,
There joys to crown the fertile Plains,
With genial Warmth the Winter glows,
And Spring with lengthen'd Honours reigns,
Nor Aulon, friendly to the cluster'd Vine,
Envies the Vintage of Falernian Wine.

That happy Place, that sweet Retreat,
The charming Hills that round it rise,
Your latest Hours and mine await,
And when at length your Horace dies,
There the deep Sigh thy Poet-Friend shall mourn,
And pious Tears bedew his glowing Urn.

153

Ode VII. To Pompeius Varus.

Varus, in earthly Youth belov'd,
In War's extremest Dangers prov'd,
Our daring Host when Brutus led,
And in the Cause of Freedom bled,
To Rome and all her Guardian Powers
What happy Chance my Friend restores,
With whom I've cheer'd the tedious Day,
And drank its loitering Hours away;
Profuse of Sweets while Syria shed
Her liquid Odours on my Head?

With Thee I saw Philippi's Plain,
Its fatal Rout; a fearful Scene!
And dropp'd, alas! th'inglorious Shield,
Where Valour's self was forc'd to yield,
Where soil'd in Dust the vanquish'd lay,
And breath'd th'indignant Soul away.

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But me, when dying with my Fear,
Through warring Hosts, enwrap'd in Air
Swift did the God of Wit convey;
While Thee, wild War's tempestuous Sea
Resorbing, hurried far from Shore,
And to new Scenes of Slaughter bore.

To Jove thy votive Offering pay
And here beneath my Laurels lay
Thy Limbs, from Toils of Warfare free,
Nor spare the Casks reserv'd for Thee,
But joyous fill the polish'd Bowl;
With Wine oblivious chear thy Soul,
And from the breathing Phials pour
Of essenc'd Sweets a larger Show'r.

But who the Wreath unfading weaves
Of Parsly or of Myrtle-Leaves?

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To whom shall Beauty's Queen assign
To reign the Monarch of our Wine?
For Thracian-like I'll drink to day,
And deeply Bacchus it away.
Our Transports for a Friend restor'd,
Should even to Madness shake the Board.

Ode VIII. To Barine.

If e'er th'insulted Powers had shed
The slightest Vengeance on thy Head,
If but a Nail or Tooth of Thee
Were blacken'd by thy Perjury,
Again thy Falshood might deceive,
And I the faithless Vow believe.
But when, Perfidious, you engage
To meet high Heaven's vindictive Rage,
You rise, with heighten'd Lustre fair,
Of all our Youth the public Care.
It thrives with Thee to be forsworn
By thy dead Mother's hallow'd Urn:
By Heaven, and all the Stars, that roll
In silent Circuit round the Pole;
By Heaven and every nightly Sign,
By every deathless Power divine;

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For Venus laughs at all thy Wiles,
The gentle Nymphs behold with Smiles,
And, with the Blood of some poor Swain,
By thy perfidious Beauty slain,
Fierce Cupid whets his burning Darts,
For Thee to wound new Lovers Hearts.

Thy Train of Slaves grows every Day,
Infants are rising to thy Sway,
And They, who swore to break thy Chain,
Yet haunt those impious Doors again.
Thee Mothers for their Striplings fear,
The Father trembles for his Heir,
And weeping stands the Virgin-Bride,
In Hymen's Fetters newly tied,
Lest You detain, with brighter Charms,
Her perjur'd Husband from her Arms.

Ode IX. To Valgius.

Nor everlasting Rain deforms
The squalid Fields, nor endless Storms,
Inconstant, vex the Caspian Main,
Nor on Armenia's frozen Plain

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The loitering Snow unmelting lies,
Nor loud when Northern Winds arise,
The labouring Forests bend the Head,
Nor yet their leafy Honours shed:
But you in ceaseless Tears complain,
And still indulge this weeping Strain.
When Vesper lifts his Evening Ray,
Or flies the rapid Beam of Day,
The Death of Mystes fills your Eyes,
And bids the tender Passion rise.

Not for his Son the Grecian Sage,
Renown'd for thrice the mortal Age;
Not for their youthful Brother dead
Such Sorrows Priam's Daughters shed.
At length these weak Complaints give o'er,
Indulge th'unmanly Grief no more,
But let us bolder sweep the String,
And Cæsar's new-rais'd Trophies sing;

163

Or sing Niphates' freezing Flood,
And Medus, with his Realms, subdued;
Whose Waves are taught with humbler Pride
Smoother to roll their lessening Tide,
And Scythians, who reluctant yield,
Nor pour their Squadrons o'er the Field.

Ode X. To Licinius Murena.

Licinius, would You live with Ease,
Tempt not too far the boundless Seas;
And when You hear the Tempest roar,
Press not too near th'unequal Shore.

The Man, within the golden Mean,
Who can his boldest Wish contain,
Securely views the ruin'd Cell
Where sordid Want and Sorrow dwell,
And in himself serenely great
Declines an envied Room of State.

When high in Air the Pine ascends
To every ruder Blast it bends:
The Palace from its airy Height
Falls tumbling down with heavier Weight,
And when from Heaven the Lightning flies,
It blasts the Hills, which proudest rise.

165

With Virtue's tranquil Wisdom blest,
Who e'er enjoys th'untroubled Breast,
With Hope the gloomy Hour can chear,
And temper Happiness with Fear.
If Jove the Winter's Horrours bring,
Great Jove restores the genial Spring;
Then let us not of Fate complain,
For soon shall change the gloomy Scene.
Apollo sometimes can inspire
The silent Muse, and wake the Lyre;
The deathful Bow not always plies,
Th'unerring Dart not always flies,
When Fortune, various Goddess, lowers,
Collect your Strength, exert your Powers,
But, when she breathes a kinder Gale,
Wisely contract your swelling Sail.

Ode XI. To Quintius Hirpinus.

Be not anxious, Friend, to know
What the fierce Cantabrian Foe,
What intends the Scythian's Pride,
Far from Us whom Seas divide.

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Tremble not with vain Desires,
Few the Things which Life requires.
Youth with rapid Swiftness flies,
Beauty's Lustre quickly dies,
Wither'd Age drives far away
Gentle Sleep and amorous Play.
When in vernal Bloom they glow
Flowers their gayest Honours show;
Nor the Moon with equal Grace
Always lifts her ruddy Face.
Thus while Nature's Works decay,
Busy mortal, prithee say,
Why do you fatigue the Mind,
Not for endless Schemes design'd?

Thus beneath this lofty Shade,
Thus in careless Freedom laid,
While Assyrian Essence sheds
Liquid Fragrance on our Heads,
While we lie with Roses crown'd,
Let the chearful Bowl go round:
Bacchus can our Cares controul,
Cares that prey upon the Soul.

169

Who shall from the passing Stream
Quench our Wine's Falernian Flame;
Who the vagrant Wanton bring,
Mistress of the Lyric String,
With her flowing Tresses tied,
Careless like a Spartan Bride.

Ode XII. To Mæcenas.

Numantia's Wars, for Years maintain'd,
Or Hannibal's vindictive Ire,
Or Seas with Punic Gore distain'd,
Suit not the Softness of my feeble Lyre;

171

Nor the fierce Broils and savage Mirth
Of Centaurs deep with Wine imbru'd;
Nor the gigantic Sons of Earth
By Force Herculean gloriously subdu'd:

That Earth-born Race, with dire Alarms
Who shook the starry Spheres above,
And impious dar'd with horrid Arms
Boldly defy th'Omnipotence of Jove.

You in historic Prose shall tell
The mighty Power of Cæsar's War;
How Kings beneath his Battle fell,
And drag'd indignant his triumphal Car.

Licymnia's Voice, Licymnia's Eye,
Bright-darting its resplendent Ray,
Her Breast where Love and Friendship lie,
The Muse commands me sing in softer Lay;

173

In Raillery the sportive Jest,
Graceful her Step in dancing charms,
When playful at Diana's Feast
To the bright Virgin Choir she winds her Arms.

Say, shall the Wealth by Kings possest,
Or the rich Diadems They wear,
Or all the Treasures of the East,
Purchase one Lock of my Licymnia's Hair?

While now her bending Neck she plies
Backward to meet the burning Kiss,
Then with an easy Cruelty denies,
And wishes you would snatch, not ask the Bliss.

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Ode XIII.

[Whoever rais'd and planted Thee]

Whoever rais'd and planted Thee,
Unlucky and pernicious Tree,
In Hour accurs'd with impious Hand
(Thou Bane and Scandal of my Land)
Well may I think the Parricide
In Father's Blood his Soul had dyed,
Or plung'd his Dagger in the Breast
Of his deep-slumbering, midnight Guest,

177

Or temper'd every baleful Juice,
Which poisonous Colchian Glebes produce,
Or if a blacker Crime be known,
That Crime the Wretch had made his own,
Who on my harmless Grounds and me
Bestow'd Thee, luckless, falling Tree.

While Dangers hourly round us rise
No Caution guards us from Surprize.
All other Deaths the Sailor dares,
Who yet the raging Ocean fears;
The Parthian views with deep Dismay,
The Roman Chains and firm Array;
The Roman dreads the Parthian's Speed,
His flying War and backward Reed;
While Death, unheeded, sweeps away
The World, his everlasting Prey.

How near was I those dreary Plains
Where Pluto's auburn Consort reigns,
Where awful sits the Judge of Hell,
Where pious Spirits blissful dwell,
Where Sappho in melodious Strains
Of cruel Calumny complains,
Alcæus strikes the golden Strings,
And Seas, and War, and Exile sings?

179

Thus while they strike the various Lyre
The Ghosts the sacred Sounds admire;
But when Alcæus lifts the Strain
To Deeds of War and Tyrants slain,
In thicker Crouds the shadowy Throng
Drink deeper down the martial Song.
What Wonder? When with bending Ears
The Dog of Hell astonish'd hears,
And, in the Furies Hair entwin'd,
The Snakes with chearful Horrour wind,
While charm'd by the melodious Strain
The tortur'd Ghosts forget their Pain,
Nor Lyon's Rage, nor Lynx's Flight,
Orion's raptur'd Soul delight.

181

Ode XIV. To Postumus.

How swiftly glide our flying Years!
Alas! nor Piety, nor Tears
Can stop the fleeting Day;
Deep-furrow'd Wrinkles, posting Age,
And Death's unconquerable Rage,
Are Strangers to Delay.

Though every Day a Bull should bleed
To Pluto, bootless were the Deed,
The Monarch tearless reigns,
Where Vultur-tortur'd Tityos lies,
And triple Geryon's monstrous Size
The gloomy Wave detains.

Whoever tastes of earthly Food
Is doom'd to pass the joyless Flood,
And hear the Stygian Roar;
The sceptred King, who rules the Earth,
The labouring Hind of humbler Birth,
Must reach the distant Shore.

The broken Surge of Adria's Main,
Hoarse-sounding, we avoid in vain,
And Mars in Blood-stain'd Arms;
The Southern Blast in vain we fear,
And Autumn's Life-annoying Air
With idle Fears alarms;

183

For all must see Cocytus flow,
Whose gloomy Water sadly slow
Strays through the dreary Soil,
The guilty Maids, an ill-fam'd Train!
And, Sisyphus, thy Labours vain
Condemn'd to endless Toil.

Thy pleasing Consort must be left,
And You of Villa's, Lands, bereft,
Must to the Shades descend;
The Cypress only, hated Tree!
Of all thy much-lov'd Groves, shall Thee,
Its short-liv'd Lord attend.

Then shall thy worthier Heir discharge
And set th'imprison'd Casks at large
And dye the Floor with Wine
So rich and precious, not the Feasts
Of Pontiffes chear their ravish'd Guests
With Liquor more divine.

185

Ode XV.

[In royal Pride our Buildings rise]

In royal Pride our Buildings rise,
The useless Plough neglected lies;
Ponds, broad as Lakes, our Fields o'er-spread,
And barren Planes high wave the Head
Above the Elm, while all around,
Wafting their Fragrance o'er the Ground
Where flourish'd once the Olive Shade
And its rich Master's Cares repaid,
The Violet and Myrtle greets
The Sense—a Luxury of Sweets!
While vainly would Apollo's Ray
Through our thick Laurels pour the Day.

Not such were Cato's stern Decrees,
Nor Romulus by Arts like these
In Wisdom form'd th'imperial Sway
And bid th'unwilling World obey.
Though small each personal Estate,
The public Revenues were great;
Arcaydes were then by Law confin'd,
Nor open'd to the Northern Wind:

187

The casual Turf, where Fortune pleas'd,
The private Dwelling humbly rais'd,
While awful to the Powers divine,
Grateful They built the sacred Shrine,
And high their public Structures shone,
Enrich'd with ornamental Stone.

Ode XVI. To Pompeius Grosphus.

When Clouds the Moon's fair Lustre hide,
No Stars the doubtful Helm to guide;
The Sailor mid the raging Seas
Suppliant implores the Gods for Ease;
For Ease, the warlike Sons of Thrace,
The Medes, whom shining Quivers grace,
For Ease, that never can be sold
For Gems, for Purple, or for Gold.

189

For neither Wealth, nor Power controul
The sickly Tumults of the Soul,
Or bid the Cares to stand aloof,
Which hover round the vaulted Roof.

Happy the Man, whose frugal Board
His Father's Plenty can afford;
His gentle Sleep nor anxious Fear
Shall drive away, nor sordid Care

Why do we aim with eager Strife
At Things beyond the Mark of Life?
Creatures, alas! whose boasted Power
Is but the Blessing of an Hour!
To Climates warm'd by other Suns
In vain the wretched Exile runs;
Consuming Cares incessant charge
His Flight, and climb his armed Barge;
Or though he mount the rapid Steed
Care follows with unerring Speed,
Far fleeter than the timorous Hind,
Far fleeter than the driving Wind.

He, who can taste without Allay
The present Pleasures of the Day,
Should with an easy, chearful Smile
The Bitterness of Life beguile;
Should all of future Care detest,
For nothing is completely blest.

191

Achilles perish'd in his Prime,
Tithon was worn away by Time,
And Fate, with lavish Hand, to Me
May grant what it denies to Thee.

An hundred bleating Flocks are thine,
Around Thee graze thy lowing Kine;
Neighing thy Mares invite the Reins,
Thy Robes the double Purple stains,
To Me, not unindulgent Fate
Bestow'd a rural, calm Retreat,
With Art to tune the Roman Lyre,
To warm the Song with Grecian Fire,
And scorn, in conscious Virtue proud,
The worthless Malice of the Croud.

Ode XVII. To Mæcenas.

Why will Mæcenas thus complain,
And kill me with th'unkindly Strain?
Nor can the Gods, nor I consent
That You, my Life's great Ornament,
Should sink untimely to the Tomb,
While I survive the fatal Doom.

193

Should You, alas! be snatch'd away,
Wherefore, ah! wherefore should I stay,
My Value lost, no longer whole,
And but possessing half my Soul?
One Day, believe the sacred Oath,
Shall lead the funeral Pomp of Both;
Chearful to Pluto's dark Abode,
With Thee I'll tread the dreary Road,
Nor fell Chimæra's Breath of Fire,
Nor hundred-handed Gyas dire,
Shall ever tear my Friend from Me;
So Justice and the Fates decree.

Whether fair Libra's kinder Sign,
Or Scorpius with an Eye malign
Beheld my Birth (whose gloomy Power
Rules dreadful o'er the natal Hour)
Or Capricorn, with angry Rays
Who shines the Tyrant of the Seas,
With equal Beams our Stars unite,
And strangely shed their mingled Light.
Thee, Jove's bright Influence snatch'd away
From baleful Saturn's impious Ray,

195

And stop'd the rapid Wings of Fate,
When the full Theatre, elate,
With joyful Transports hail'd thy Name,
And thrice uprais'd the loud Acclaim.

A Tree, when falling on my Head,
Had surely crush'd Me to the Dead,
But Pan, the Poet's Guardian, broke,
With saving Hand, the destin'd Stroke.
For Thee, let the rich Victim's Blood
Pour forth to Jove its purple Flood;
For Thee, the votive Temple rise;
For Me an humble Lambkin dies.

Ode XVIII.

[No Walls with Ivory inlaid]

No Walls with Ivory inlaid
Adorn my House, no Colonade
Proudly supports a Citron Beam,
Nor rich with Gold my Cielings flame;

197

Nor have I, like an Heir unknown,
Seiz'd upon Attalus his Throne;
Nor Dames, to happier Fortunes bred,
Draw down for Me the purple Thread;
Yet with a firm and honest Heart,
Unknowing or of Fraud or Art,
A liberal Vein of Genius blest,
I'm by the Rich and Great carest.
My Patron's Gift, my Sabine Field
Shall all its rural Plenty yield,
And happy in that rural Store,
Of Heaven and Him I ask no more.

Day presses on the Heels of Day,
And Moons increase to their Decay;
But You, with thoughtless Pride elate,
Unconscious of impending Fate,
Command the pillar'd Dome to rise,
When lo! thy Tomb forgotten lies;
And, though the Waves indignant roar,
Forward You urge the Baian Shore,
While Earth's too narrow Bounds in vain
Thy guilty Progress would restrain.

199

What can this impious Avarice stay?
Their sacred Landmarks torn away,
You plunge into your Neighbour's Grounds,
And overleap your Client's Bounds.
Helpless the Wife and Husband flee,
And in their Arms, expell'd by Thee
Their houshold Gods, ador'd in vain,
Their Infants too, a sordid Train.

Yet destin'd by unerring Fate,
Shall Hell's rapacious Courts await
This wealthy Lord—
Then whither tend thy wide Demaines?
For Earth impartial entertains
Her various Sons, and in her Breast
Monarchs and Beggars equal rest.

Nor Gold could bribe, nor Art deceive
The gloomy Life-guard of the Grave,
Backward to tread the shadowy Way,
And waft Prometheus into Day.
Yet He, who Tantalus detains
With all his haughty Race in Chains,
Invok'd or not, the Wretch receives,
And from the Toils of Life relieves.

201

Ode XIX. To Bacchus.

I saw (let future Times believe)
The God of Wine his Lectures give,
Midst Rocks far distant was the Scene;
With Ears erect the Satyrs stood,
With every Goddess of the Wood,
Listening th'instructive, solemn Strain.

The recent Terrour heaves my Breast,
Yet with th'inspiring Power possest,
Tumultuous Joys my Soul have warm'd;
Dreadful, who shak'st the Ivy-spear,
Thy Votary thus prostrate hear,
And be thy Rage, thy Rage disarm'd.

Give Me to sing, by Thee inspir'd,
Thy Priestesses to Madness fir'd:
Fountains of Wine shall pour along,
And, melting from the hollow Tree,
The golden Treasures of the Bee,
And Streams of Milk shall fill the Song.

Fair Ariadne's Crown shall rise,
And add new Glories to the Skies;
While I to listening Nations tell,
How impious Pentheus' Palace burn'd,
With hideous Ruin overturn'd,
And how the mad Lycurgus fell.

203

Indus and Ganges own thy Sway,
Barbaric Seas thy Power obey,
And o'er the pathless Mountain's Height,
Her Head with horrid Snakes enroll'd,
Which harmless writhe their angry Fold,
Thy raptur'd Priestess speeds her Flight.

When rising fierce in impious Arms,
The Giant-Race with dire Alarms
Assail'd the sacred Realms of Light,
With Lion-Wrath, and dreadful Paw,
With Blood-besmear'd and foaming Jaw
You put their horrid Chief to flight.

For Dancing form'd, for Love and Wit,
You seem'd for War's rude Toils unfit,
And polish'd to each softer Grace:
But dreadful when in Arms You shone,
You made the fatal Art your own,
In War excelling as in Peace.

205

With golden Horn supremely bright,
You darted round the bending Light
Far-beaming through the Gloom of Hell:
When Cerberus, with Fear amaz'd,
Forgot his Rage, and fawning gaz'd,
And at thy Feet adoring fell.

Ode XX. To Mæcenas.

With strong unwonted Wing I rise,
A two-form'd Poet through the Skies.
Far above Envy will I soar,
And tread this worthless Earth no more.
For know, ye Rivals of my Fame,
Though lowly born, a vulgar Name,
I will not condescend to die,
Nor in the Stygian Waters lie.

207

A rougher Skin now clothes my Thighs,
Into a Swan's fair Form I rise,
And feel the feather'd Plumage shed
Its Down, and o'er my Shoulders spread.
Swift as with Dædalean Wing,
Harmonious Bird, I'll soaring sing,
And in my Flight, the foamy Shores,
Where Bosphorus tremendous roars,
The Regions bound by Northern Cold,
And Lybia's burning Sands behold.
Then to the learned Sons of Spain,
To him, who ploughs the Scythian Main,
To him, who with dissembled Fears,
Conscious, the Roman Arms reveres,
To Him, who drinks the rapid Rhone,
Shall Horace, deathless Bard, be known.

My Friends, the funeral Sorrow spare,
The plaintive Song, and tender Tear;
Nor let the Voice of Grief profane,
With loud Laments, the solemn Scene;
Nor o'er your Poet's empty Urn
With useless, idle Sorrows mourn.

End of the Second Book.

209

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I.

[Monarchs on Earth their Power extend]

Monarchs on Earth their Power extend,
Monarchs to Jove submissive bend,
And own the sovereign God,
With glorious Triumph who subdued
The Titan Race, gigantic Brood!
And shakes whole Nature with his Nod.

When rival Candidates contend,
And to the Field of Mars descend,
To urge th'ambitious Claim,
Some of illustrious Birth are proud,
Some of their Clients vassal Croud,
And some of Virtue's Fame.

211

Others the rural Labour love,
And joy to plant the spreading Grove,
The furrow'd Glebe to turn;
Yet with impartial Hand shall Fate
Both of the Lowly and the Great
Shake the capacious Urn.

Behold the Wretch, with conscious Dread,
In pointed Vengeance o'er his Head
Who views th'impending Sword;
Nor Dainties force his pall'd Desire,
Nor Chaunt of Birds, nor vocal Lyre
To Him can Sleep afford;

Heart-soothing Sleep, which not disdains
The rural Cot, and humble Swains,
And shady River fair;
Or Tempe's ever-blooming Spring,
Where Zephyrs wave the balmy Wing,
And fan the buxom Air.

Who Nature's frugal Dictates hears,
He nor the raging Ocean fears,
Nor Stars of Power malign,
Whether in gloomy Storms they rise,
Or swift descending through the Skies
With angry Lustre shine;

213

Whether his Vines be smit with Hail,
Whether his promis'd Harvests fail,
Perfidious to his Toil;
Whether his drooping Trees complain
Of angry Winters, chilling Rain,
Or Stars, that burn the Soil.

Not such the haughty Lord, who lays
His deep Foundations in the Seas,
And scorns Earth's narrow Bound;
The Fish affrighted feel their Waves
Contracted by his numerous Slaves,
Even in the vast Profound.

High though his Structures rise in Air,
Threatning Remorse, and black Despair
This haughty Lord shall find;
O'ertake his armed Galley's Speed,
And when he mounts the flying Steed,
Sits gloomy Care behind.

If Purple, which the Morn outshines,
Or Marble from the Phrygian Mines,
Though labour'd high with Art,
If Essence, breathing Sweets divine,
Or flowing Bowls of generous Wine,
Ill sooth an anxious Heart,

On Columns, rais'd in modern Style,
Why should I plan the lofty Pile
To rise with envied State?
Why, for a vain, superfluous Store,
Which would encumber me the more,
Resign my Sabine Seat?

215

Ode II. To his Friends.

Our hardy Youth should learn to bear
Sharp Want, to rein the warlike Steed,
To hurl the well-directed Spear
With pointed Force, and bid the Parthian bleed.

Thus form'd in War's tumultuous Trade
Through Summer's Heat, and Winter's Cold,
Some Tyrant's Queen, or blooming Maid,
Shall from her Walls the martial Youth behold,

Deep-sighing lest her royal Spouse,
Untaught the deathful Sword to wield,
That Lion, in his Wrath, should rouse,
Whom furious Rage drives through th'ensanguin'd Field.

What Joys, what Glories round Him wait,
Who bravely for his Country dies!
While, with dishonest Wounds, shall Fate
Relentless stab the Coward as he flies.

217

With stainless Lustre Virtue shines,
A base Repulse nor knows, nor fears;
Asserts her Honours, nor declines,
As the light Air of Crouds uncertain veers;

To him, who not deserves to die,
She shews the Paths, which Heroes trod,
Then bids Him boldly tempt the Sky,
Spurn off his mortal Clay, and rise a God.

To Silence due Rewards we give,
And they, who Mysteries reveal
Beneath my Roof shall never live,
Shall never hoist with me the doubtful Sail.

When Jove in Anger strikes the Blow,
Oft with the Bad the Righteous bleed:
Yet with sure Steps, though lame and slow,
Vengeance o'ertakes the trembling Villain's Speed.

219

Ode III.

[The Man, in conscious Virtue bold]

The Man, in conscious Virtue bold,
Who dares his secret Purpose hold,
Unshaken hears the Croud's tumultuous Cries,
And the impetuous Tyrant's angry Brow defies.

Let the loud Winds, that rule the Seas,
Their wild tempestuous Horrours raise;
Let Jove's dread Arm with Thunders rend the Spheres,
Beneath the Crush of Worlds undaunted he appears.

Thus to the flamy Towers above,
The vagrant Hero, Son of Jove,
Upsoar'd with Strength his own, where Cæsar lies,
And quaffs, with glowing Lips, the Bowl's immortal Joys.

221

Fierce and indocile to the Yoke,
His Tygers thus Lyæus broke;
Thus from the gloomy Regions of the Dead
On his paternal Steeds Rome's mighty Founder fled;

When Heaven's great Queen, with Words benign
Address'd th'assembled Powers divine—
Troy, hated Troy, an Umpire lewd, unjust,
And a proud foreign Dame, have sunk thee to the Dust,

To me, and Wisdom's Queen decreed,
With all thy guilty Race to bleed,
What Time thy haughty Monarch's perjur'd Sire
Mock'd the defrauded Gods, and robb'd them of their Hire.

The gaudy Guest, of impious Fame,
No more enjoys th'adulterous Dame,
Hector no more his faithless Brothers leads
To break the Grecian Force; no more the Victor bleeds,

223

Since the long War now sinks to Peace,
And all our heavenly Factions cease;
Instant to Mars my Vengeance I resign,
And here receive his Son, though born of Trojan Line.

Here, with encircling Glories bright,
Free let him tread the Paths of Light,
And rank'd among the tranquil Powers divine,
Drink deep the nectar'd Bowl, and quaff celestial Wine.

While loud a Length of Ocean roars
From Rome to Troy's detested Shores,
Unenvied let th'illustrious Exiles reign,
Where Fate directs their Course, and spreads their wide Domain.

On Priam's and th'Adulterer's Urn,
While Herds the Dust insulting spurn,
Let the proud Capitol in Glory stand,
And Rome, to triumph'd Medes, give forth her stern Command.

Let the victorious Voice of Fame
Wide spread the Terrours of her Name,
Where Seas the Continents of Earth divide,
And Nilus bathes the Plain with his prolific Tide.

125

Let her the golden Mine despise;
For deep in Earth it better lies,
Than when by Hands profane from Nature's Store,
To human Use compell'd, flames forth the sacred Ore.

Let her triumphant Arms extend
Where Nature's utmost Limits end;
Or where the Sun pours down his madding Beams,
Or where the Clouds are dark, and Rain perpetual streams.

Thus let the warlike Romans reign,
So Juno and the Fates ordain,
But on these Terms alone, no more to dare
Through Piety or Pride their parent Troy repair;

For Troy rebuilt, ill-omen'd State!
Shall feel the same avenging Fate;
Again my Grecians shall victorious prove,
By me led on to War, the Sister-Wife of Jove.

Thrice should Apollo raise her Wall,
Thrice should her brazen Bulwarks fall,
Thrice should her Matrons feel the Victor's Chain,
Deplore their slaughter'd Sons, deplore their Husbands slain.

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But whither would the Muse aspire?
Such Themes nor suit the sportive Lyre,
Nor should the Wanton, thus in feeble Strain,
The Councils of the Gods, immortal Themes, profane.

Ode IV. To Calliope.

Descend from Heaven, and in a lengthen'd Strain,
Queen of melodious Sounds, the Song maintain,
Or on the Voice high-rais'd, the breathing Flute,
The Lyre of golden Tone, or sweet Phœbean Lute.

Hark! the celestial Voice I raptur'd hear!
Or does a pleasing Frenzy charm my Ear?
Through hallow'd Groves I stray, where Streams beneath
From lucid Fountains flow, and Zephyrs balmy breathe.

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Fatigu'd with Sleep, and youthful Toil of Play,
When on a Mountain's Brow reclin'd I lay
Near to my natal Soil, around my Head
The fabled woodland Doves a verdant Foliage spread;

Matter, be sure, of Wonder most profound
To all the gazing Habitants around,
Who dwell in Acherontia's airy Glades,
Amid the Bantian Woods, or low Ferentum's Meads,

By Snakes of Poison black, and Beasts of Prey,
That thus, in dewy Sleep, unharm'd I lay;
Laurels and Myrtle were around me pil'd,
Not without guardian Gods an animated Child.

Yours, I am ever yours, harmonious Nine,
Whether I joy in Tibur's Vale supine;
Whether I climb the Sabine Mountain's Height,
Or in Præneste's Groves, or Baian Streams delight.

Nor Tree devoted, nor tempestuous Main,
Nor flying Hosts, that swept Philippi's Plain
In fearful Rout, your filial Bard destroy'd,
While in your Springs divine, and choral Sports he joy'd.

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When by the Muse's faithful Guidance led,
Or Lybia's thirsty Sands I'll fearless tread,
Or climb the venturous Bark, and launch from Shore,
Though Bosphorus arous'd with madding Horrours roar.

Nor Britons, of inhospitable Strain,
Nor quiver'd Scythians, nor the Caspian Main,
Nor he who joyous quaffs the thirsty Bowl,
Streaming with Horse's Blood, shall shake my dauntless Soul.

When Cæsar, by your forming Arts inspir'd,
Chearful disbands his Troops, of Conquest tir'd,
And yields to willing Peace his laurel'd Spoils,
In the Pierian Cave you charm the Hero's Toils;

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Gracious from you the lenient Councils flow,
Which bid the Hero spare his prostrate Foe;
For Cæsar rules like Jove, whose equal Sway
The ponderous Mass of Earth, and stormy Seas obey:

O'er Gods and Mortals, o'er the dreary Plains,
And shadowy Ghosts, supremely just he reigns,
But, dreadful in his Wrath, to Hell pursued,
With falling Thunders dire, the fierce Titanian Brood,

Whose horrid Youth, elate with impious Pride,
Unnumber'd, on their sinewy Force relied;
Mountain on Mountain pil'd they rais'd in Air,
And shook the Throne of Jove, and bad the Thunderer fear.

But what could Mimas, of enormous Might,
Typhœus or Porphyrion's threatening Height,
Or bold Enceladus fierce-darting far
The Trunks of Trees uptorn, dire Archer of the War,

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To sage Minerva's clashing Shield oppose
Although with headlong Rage inspir'd they rose?
While Vulcan here in Flames devour'd his Way,
There Matron Juno stood, and there the God of Day,

Resolv'd, till he had quell'd th'aspiring Foe,
Never to lay aside th'unerring Bow;
Who the pure Dews of fair Castalia loves,
There bathes his flowing Hair, and haunts his natal Groves.

Ill-counsel'd Force, by its own native Weight,
Headlong to Ruin falls; with happier Fate
While the good Gods upraise the just Design,
But bold, unhallow'd Schemes pursue with Wrath divine.

This Truth shall hundred-handed Gyas prove,
And warm Orion, who with impious Love
Tempting the Goddess of the Sylvan Scene,
Was by her Virgin Darts, gigantic Victim! slain.

On her own Monsters hurl'd with hideous Weight,
Fond Mother Earth deplores her Offspring's Fate,
By Thunders dire to livid Orcus doom'd,
Nor Fire can force its Way through Ætna unconsum'd.

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Such are the Pains to lawless Lust decreed;
On Tityos' growing Liver Vulturs feed
With Rage ungorg'd, while Pluto stern detains
His amorous Rival bound in thrice an hundred Chains.

Ode V. The Praises of Augustus.

Dread Jove in Thunder speaks his just Domain;
On Earth a present God shall Cæsar reign,
Since World-divided Britain owns his Sway,
And Parthia's haughty Sons his high Behests obey.

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O Name of Country, once how sacred deem'd!
O sad Reverse of Manners, once esteem'd!
While Rome her ancient Majesty maintain'd,
And in his Capitol while Jove imperial reign'd,

Could they to foreign Spousals meanly yield,
Whom Crassus led with Honour to the Field?
Have they, to their Barbarian Lords allied,
Grown old in hostile Arms beneath a Tyrant's Pride,

Basely forgetful of the Roman Name,
The Heaven-descended Shields, the Vestal Flame,
That wakes eternal, and the peaceful Gown,
Those Emblems, which the Fates with boundless Empire crown?

When Regulus refus'd the Terms of Peace
Inglorious, He foresaw the deep Disgrace,
Whose foul Example should in Ruin end,
And even to latest Times our baffled Arms attend,

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Unless the captive Youth in servile Chains
Should fall unpitied. In the Punic Fanes
Have I not seen, the Patriot-Captain cried,
The Roman Ensigns fix'd in monumental Pride?

I saw our Arms resign'd without a Wound;
The free-born Sons of Rome in Fetters bound;
The Gates of Carthage open, and the Plain,
Late by our War laid waste, with Culture cloth'd again.

Ransom'd, perhaps, with nobler Sense of Fame
The Soldier may return—Ye purchase Shame.
When the fair Fleece imbibes the Dyer's Stain
Its native Colour lost it never shall regain,

And Valour, failing in the Soldier's Breast,
Scorns to resume what Cowardice possest.
If from the Toils escap'd the Hinde shall turn
Fierce on her Hunters, He the prostrate Foe may spurn.

In second Fight, who felt the Fetters bind
His Arms enslav'd; who tamely hath resign'd
His Sword unstain'd with Blood; who might have died,
Yet on a faithless Foe, with abject Soul, relied;

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Who for his Safety mix'd poor Terms of Peace
Even with the Act of War; O foul Disgrace!
O Carthage, now with rival Glories great,
And on the Ruins rais'd of Rome's dejected State!

The Hero spoke; and from his wedded Dame,
And Infant-Children turn'd, opprest with Shame
Of his fallen State; their fond Embrace repell'd,
And sternly on the Earth his manly Visage held,

'Till, by his unexampled Counsel sway'd,
Their firm Decree the wavering Senate made;
Then, while his Friends the Tears of Sorrow shed,
Amidst the weeping Throng the glorious Exile sped.

Nor did he not the cruel Tortures know
Vengeful, prepar'd by a Barbarian Foe;
Yet, with a Countenance serenely gay,
He turn'd aside the Croud, who fondly press'd his Stay,

As if, when wearied by some Client's Cause,
After the final Sentence of the Laws
Chearful he hasted to some calm Retreat,
To taste the pure Delights, which bless the rural Seat.

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Ode VI. To the Romans.

Though guiltless of your Father's Crimes,
Roman, 'tis thine, to latest Times,
The Vengeance of the Gods to bear,
'Till Thou their awful Domes repair,
Profan'd with Smoke their Statues raise,
And bid their sacred Altars blaze.

That You the Powers divine obey,
Boundless on Earth extends your Sway;
From hence your future Glories date,
From hence expect the Hand of Fate.
Th'offended Gods, in Horrours dire,
On sad Hesperia pour'd their Ire:
The Parthian Squadrons twice repell'd
Our inauspicious Powers, and quell'd
Our boldest Efforts, while they shone
With Spoils, from conquer'd Romans won.

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The Dacian, whose unerring Art
Can wing with Death the pointed Dart;
Th'Ægyptian, for his Navies fam'd,
Who Neptune's boundless Empire claim'd,
Had almost in their Rage destroy'd
Imperial Rome, in civil Strife employ'd.

Fruitful of Crimes, this Age first stain'd
Their hapless Offspring, and profan'd
The nuptial Bed, from whence the Woes,
Which various and unnumber'd rose
From this polluted Fountain Head,
O'er Rome, and o'er the Nations spread.

With plyant Limbs the ripen'd Maid
Now joys to learn the wanton Trade
Of Dance indecent, and to prove
The Pleasures of forbidden Love:
But soon amid the Bridal Feast
Boldly she courts her Husband's Guest;
Her Love no nice Distinction knows,
But round the wandering Pleasure throws,
Careless to hide the bold Delight
In Darkness, and the Shades of Night.

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Nor does she need the thin Disguise,
The conscious Husband bids her rise,
When some rich Factor courts her Charms,
Who calls the Wanton to his Arms,
And, prodigal of Wealth and Fame,
Profusely buys the costly Shame.

Not such the Youth, of such a Strain,
Who dyed with Punic Gore the Main;
Who Pyrrhus' flying War pursued,
Antiochus the Great subdued,
And taught that Terrour of the Field,
The cruel Hannibal, to yield:
But a rough Race inur'd to Toil,
With heavy Spade to turn the Soil,
And by a Mother's Will severe
To fell the Wood, and homeward bear
The ponderous Load, even when the Sun
His downward Course of Light had run,
And from the Western Mountain's Head
His changing Shadows lengthening spread,
Unyok'd the Team with Toil opprest,
And gave the friendly Hour of Rest.

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What feels not Time's consuming Rage?
More vicious than their Father's Age
Our Sires begot the present Race,
Of Actions impious, bold and base,
And yet, with Crimes to us unknown,
Our Sons shall mark the coming Age their own.

Ode VII. To Asterie.

Ah! why does Asterie thus weep for the Youth
Of Constancy faithful, of Honour and Truth,
Whom the first kindly Zephyrs, that breathe o'er the Spring,
Enrich'd with the Wares of Bithynia shall bring?
Driven back from his Course by the Tempests, that rise
When Stars of mad Lustre rule over the Skies,
At Oricum now poor Gyges must stay,
Where sleepless he weeps the cold Winter away;
While his Landlady Chloe, in Sorrow of Heart,
Bids her Envoy of Love exert all his Art,
Who tells him how Chloe, unhappy the Dame!
Deep sighs for your Lover, and burns in your Flame.

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He tells him how Prœtus, deceiv'd by his Wife,
Attempted, ah dreadful! Bellerophon's Life,
And urg'd by false Crimes, how he sought to destroy
The Youth for refusing too chastely the Joy:
How Peleus was almost dispatch'd to the Dead,
While the lovely Magnessian abstemious he fled.
Then he turns every Tale, and applies it with Art,
Which can melt down his Virtue, and soften his Heart;
But constant and Heart-whole young Gyges appears,
And deafer than Rocks the Tale-teller hears;
Then, Fair-one, take heed lest Enipeus should prove
A little too pleasing, and tempt thee to Love;
And though without Rival he shine in the Course,
To rein the fierce Steed though unequal his Force,
Though matchless the Swiftness, with which he divides,
In crossing the Tiber, the rough-swelling Tides,
Yet shut the fond Door at Evening's first Shade,
Nor look down to the Street at the soft Serenade,
Or if cruel he call thee in Love-sighing Strain,
Yet more and more cruel be sure to remain.

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Ode VIII. To Mæcenas.

In either Language skill'd, my Lord, 'tis thine
To know, in Greece and Rome, the Rites divine;
And well may You these flowery Wreaths admire,
The fragrant Incense and the sacred Fire,
Rais'd o'er the living Turf on this glad Day
To which the married World their Homage pay.

When on my Head a Tree devoted fell,
And almost crush'd me to the Shades of Hell,
Grateful I vow'd to him, who rules the Vine
A joyous Banquet, while beneath his Shrine
A snow-white Goat should bleed, and when the Year
Revolving bids this festal Morn appear,
We'll pierce a Cask with mellow Juice replete,
Mellow'd with Smoke, since Tullus rul'd the State.

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Come then, Mæcenas, and for Friendship's sake,
A Friend preserv'd, an hundred Bumpers take.
Come drink the watchful Tapers up to Day,
While Noise and Quarrels shall be far away.
No more let Rome your anxious Thoughts engage,
The Dacian falls beneath the Victor's Rage,
The Medes in civil Wars their Arms employ,
Inglorious Wars! each other to destroy;
Our ancient Foes, the haughty Sons of Spain,
At length indignant feel the Roman Chain;
With Bows unbent the hardy Scythians yield,
Resolv'd to quit the long-disputed Field.
No more the Public claims thy pious Fears,
Be not too anxious then with private Cares,
But seize the Gifts the present Moment brings,
Those fleeting Gifts, and leave severer Things.

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Ode IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.

Horace.
While I was pleasing to your Arms,
Nor any Youth, of happier Charms,
Thy snowy Bosom blissful prest,
Not Persia's King like me was blest.

Lydia.
While for no other Fair you burn'd,
Nor Lydia was for Chloe scorn'd,
What Maid was then so blest as thine?
Not Ilia's Fame could equal mine.

Horace.
Me Chloe now possesses whole,
Her Voice, her Lyre command my Soul;
For whom I'll gladly die, to save
Her dearer Beauties from the Grave.

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Lydia.
My Heart young Calaïs inspires,
Whose Bosom glows with mutual Fires,
For whom I twice would die with Joy,
If Death would spare the charming Boy.

Horace.
Yet what if Love, whose Bands we broke,
Again should tame us to the Yoke;
Should I shake off bright Chloe's Chain,
And take my Lydia home again?—

Lydia.
Though he exceed in Beauty far
The rising Lustre of a Star;
Though light as Cork thy Fancy strays,
Thy Passions wild as angry Seas,
When vex'd with Storms; yet gladly I
With thee would live, with thee would die.

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Ode X. To Lyce.

Though you drank the deep Stream of Tanais icy,
The Wife of some barbarous Blockhead, O Lyce,
Yet your Heart might relent to expose me reclin'd
At your cruel-shut Door to the Rage of the Wind.
Hark, your Gate! how it creaks! how the Grove, planted round
Your beautiful Villa, re-bellows the Sound!
How Jupiter numbs all the Regions below,
And glazes with Crystal the Fleeces of Snow!
Away with these Humours of Pride and Disdain,
To Venus ungrateful, to Cupid a Pain,
Lest while by the Pulley you raise to the top,
Your Rope should run back, and your Bucket should drop.
No sprightly Tyrrhenian begot thee a Prude,
A nother Penelope, harsh to be woo'd.

O, though neither Presents, nor vow-sighing Strain,
Nor Violet painting the Cheek of thy Swain,
Nor thy Husband, who gives up his Heart for a Ditty
To a Song-singing Wench, can provoke thee to Pity,

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O Thou, who like Serpents art gentle and kind,
And like an old Oak art to Softness inclin'd,
Yet think not this Side can for ever sustain
Thy Threshold hard-hearted, and Sky-falling Rain.

Ode XI. To Mercury.

O Mercury, by whose harmonious Aid,
Amphion's Voice the listening Stones could lead;
And Thou, sweet Shell, of Art to raise,
On seven melodious Strings, thy various Lays;
Not vocal when you first were found,
But of a simple, and ungrateful Sound;
Now tun'd so sweetly to the Ear,
That Gods and Men with sacred Rapture hear;
Oh! Thou inspire the melting Strain
To charm my Lyde's obstinate Disdain,
Who, like a Filly o'er the Field
With playful Spirit bounds, and fears to yield
To Hand of gentlest Touch, or prove,
Wild as she is, the Joys of wedded Love.
Thou canst, with all their Beasts of Prey,
The listening Forest lead, and powerful stay
The rapid Stream. The Dog of Hell,
Immense of Bulk, to thee soft-soothing fell

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Thy Suppliant, though round his Head
His hundred Snakes their guardian Horrours spread;
Baleful his Breath though fiery glow'd,
And from his three-tongued Jaws the Poison flow'd.
Ixion, of his Pains beguil'd,
And Tityos, with unwilling Pleasure, smil'd;
Dry stood their Urn, while with soft Strain
You sooth'd the Labours of the Virgin Train.
Let Lyde hear, what Pains, decreed,
Though late, in Death attend the direful Deed.
There doom'd to fill, unceasing Task!
With idle Toil, an ever-streaming Cask;
Impious, who in the Hour of Rest,
Could plunge their Daggers in a Husband's Breast.
Yet worthy of the nuptial Flame,
To latest Times preserv'd a deathless Name,
Of many, one untainted Maid,
Gloriously false, her perjur'd Sire betray'd.
Thus to her youthful Lord she cries,
Awake, lest Sleep eternal close thine Eyes;
Eternal Sleep; and ah! from whom
You little dread the fell, relentless Doom.

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Oh! fly, my Lord, this wrathful Sire;
Far from my Sisters fly, those Sisters dire,
Who riot in their Husband's Blood,
As Lionesses rend their panting Food;
While I, to such fell Deeds a Foe,
Nor bind thee here, nor strike the fatal Blow.
Me let my Father load with Chains,
Or banish to Numidia's farthest Plains;
My Crime, that I a loyal Wife,
In kind Compassion spar'd my Husband's Life.
While Venus, and the Shades of Night
Protect thee, speed, by Sea or Land, thy Flight;
May every happy Omen wait
To guide thee through this gloomy Hour of Fate,
Yet not forgetful of my Doom,
Engrave thy grateful Sorrows on my Tomb.

Ode XII. To Neobule.

Unhappy the Maidens, who tremble with Fear
Of the Stripes of a Tongue from a Guardian severe;
Nor dare the sweet Pleasures of drinking to prove,
Nor ever give Joy to the Passion of Love.
Cytheræa's wing'd Son now bids Thee resign
The Toils of Minerva, the Spinster divine;
And now, Neobule, with other Desires
The Brightness of Hebrus thy Bosom inspires;

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When rising robust from Tiber's rough Waves,
Where the Oil of his Labours athletic He laves,
Like Bellerophon skilful to rein the fierce Steed,
At Cuffs never conquer'd, nor out-strip'd in Speed,
And dextrous, with Darts never flying in vain,
To wound the light Stag, bounding over the Plain,
Or active and valiant the Boar to surprise,
Transfix'd with his Spear, as in Covert He lies.

Ode XIII. To the Fountain Bandusia.

Bandusia, that dost far surpass,
The shining Face of polish'd Glass,
To Thee, the Goblet, crown'd with Flowers,
The rich Libation justly pours;

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A Goat, whose Horns begin to spread,
And bending arm his swelling Head,
Whose Bosom glows with young Desires,
Which War or kindling Love inspires,
Now meditates his Blow in vain,—
His Blood shall thy fair Fountain stain.

When the fierce Dog-Star's fervid Ray
Flames forth, and sets on fire the Day,
You a refreshing Coolness yield
To vagrant Flocks, that range the Field,
Or to the Labour-wearied Team
Pour forth the Freshness of thy Stream.
Soon shalt Thou flow a noble Spring,
While in immortal Verse I sing
The Trees, which spread the Rocks around,
From whence thy pratling Waters bound.

Ode XIV. On the Return of Augustus from Spain.

Thy Prince, O Rome, who foreign Realms
Explor'd like Jove's immortal Son,
Fearless to search the Laurel Wreath
By Death and glorious Daring won,
Victorious comes from farthest Spain
To Rome and all his Guardian Gods again.

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Let Her, who to her Arms receives,
With Joy her own, her laurel'd Spouse,
Her private Sacrifice perform'd,
Pay to just Heaven her public Vows,
And let the fair Octavia lead
The Matron-Train in suppliant Veils array'd;

The Matron-Train, to whose glad Arms
Their Sons, with Conquest crown'd, return;
And you, fair Youth, whose pious Tears
Your slaughter'd Sires and Husbands mourn,
This Day at least your Griefs restrain,
And luckless from ill-omen'd Words abstain.

This Day, with truly festal Joy,
Shall drive all gloomy Cares away,
For while imperial Cæsar holds
O'er the glad Earth his awful Sway,
Nor Fear of Death from foreign Arms,
Or civil Rage my dauntless Soul alarms.

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Boy, bring us Essence, bring us Crowns;
Pierce me a Cask of ancient Date,
Big with the storied Marsian War,
And with its glorious Deeds replete,
If yet one jovial Cask remain
Since wandering Spartacus o'erswept the Plain.

Invite Neæra to the Feast,
Who sweetly charms the listening Ear,
And bid the Fair-one haste to bind
In careless Wreaths her essenc'd Hair,
But should her Porter bid you stay,
Leave the rough, surly Rogue, and come away.

When hoary Age upon our Heads
Pours down its chilling Weight of Snows,
No more the Breast with Anger burns,
No more with amorous Heat it glows:
Such Treatment Horace would not bear,
When warm with Youth, when Tullus fill'd the Consul's Chair.

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Ode XV. To Chloris.

Thou poor Man's Incumbrance, Thou Rake of a Wife,
At length, put an end to this infamous Life;
Now near thy long Home, to be rank'd with the Shades,
Give over to frisk it with buxom young Maids,
And, furrow'd with Wrinkles, profanely to shroud
Those bright Constellations with Age's dark Cloud.

What Pholoë well; with a Decency free,
Might practise, sits aukward, O Chloris, on Thee;
Like her, whom the Timbrel of Bacchus arouses,
Thy Daughter may better lay siege to the Houses
Of youthful Gallants, while she wantonly gambols,
Of Nothus enamour'd, like a Goat in its Rambles;
The Spindle, the Distaff, and Wool-spinning thrifty,
Not musical Instruments fit Thee at fifty,
Nor Roses impurpled, enriching the Breeze,
Nor Hogsheads of Liquor drunk down to the Lees.

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Ode XVI. To Mæcenas.

Of watchful Dogs an odious Ward
Might well one hapless Virgin guard,
When in a Tower of Brass immur'd,
And by strong Gates of Oak secur'd,
Although by mortal Gallants lewd
With all their midnight Arts pursu'd,
Had not great Jove, and Venus fair
Laugh'd at her Father's fruitless Care,
For well they knew no Fort could hold
Against a God when chang'd to Gold.

Stronger than Thunder's winged Force
All-powerful Gold can speed its Course,
Through watchful Guards its Passage make,
And loves through solid Walls to break;
From Gold the overwhelming Woes,
That crush'd the Grecian Augur rose:
Philip with Gold through Cities broke,
And rival Monarchs felt his Yoke;
Captains of Ships to Gold are Slaves,
Though fierce as their own Winds and Waves;

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Yet gloomy Care, and Thirst of more,
Attends the still encreasing Store.

While You in humble Rank appear,
Gracing the Knighthood that You wear,
By your Example taught, I dread
To raise the far-conspicuous Head.
The more we to ourselves deny,
The more the bounteous Gods supply.
Far from the Quarters of the Great,
Happy, though naked, I retreat,
And to th'unwishing Few with Joy
A bless'd and bold Deserter fly.
Possest of what the Great despise,
In real, richer Pomp I rise,
Than if, from fair Apulia's Plain,
I stor'd in Heaps the various Grain,
While, of the wealthy Mass secure,
Amidst the rich Abundance poor.

A Streamlet flowing through my Ground,
A Wood, which a few Acres bound,
A little Farm of kindly Soil,
Nor faithless to its Master's Toil,
Shall tell the Consul, whose Domain
Extends o'er Afric's fertile Plain,
Though of his envied Lot possess'd,
He ne'er shall be like Horace bless'd.

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Though nor the fam'd Calabrian Bee
Collect its flowery Sweets for me;
For me no Formian Vintage grows,
With mellow'd Warmth where Bacchus flows:
Nor on the verdant Gallic Mead
My Flocks of richer Fleeces feed,
Yet am I not with Want opprest,
Which vainly seeks the Port of Rest,
Nor would thy bounteous Hand deny
My larger Wishes to supply;
But while those Wishes I restrain,
Farther I stretch my small Demaine
Than could I distant Kingdoms join,
And make united Empires mine;
For sure the State of Man is such,
They greatly want, who covet much:
Then happy He, whom Heaven hath fed
With frugal, but sufficient Bread.

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Ode XVII. To Ælius Lamia.

Ælius, whose ancient Lineage springs
From Lamus, Founder of the Name,
(From whom a sacred Line of Kings
Shines through the long Records of Fame,

From whom th'illustrious Race arose,
Who first possess'd the Formian Towers,
And reign'd where Liris smoothly flows
To fair Marica's marshy Shores)

If the old Shower-foretelling Crow
Croak not her boading Note in vain,
To-morrow's Eastern Storm shall strow
The Woods with Leaves, with Weeds the Main.

Then pile the Fuel while you may,
And chear your Spirit high with Wine,
Give to your Slaves one idle Day,
And feast upon the fatted Swine.

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Ode XVIII. To Faunus.

Faunus, who with eager Flame
Chase the Nymphs thy flying Game,
If a tender Kid distain,
Each returning Year, thy Fane,
If with Wine we raise the Soul
(Social Venus loves the Bowl)
If thy dedicated Shrine
Smoke with Odours,—Breath divine,
Gently traverse o'er my Bounds,
Gently through my sunny Grounds,
Gracious to my fleecy Breed,
Sporting o'er the flowery Mead.

See my Flocks in sportive Vein
Frisk it o'er the verdant Plain,
When through Winter's Gloom thy Day
Festal shines, the Peasants play
On the grassy-matted Soil,
Round their Oxen, free from Toil.

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See the Wolf forgets his Prey,
With my daring Lambs to play;
See the Forest's bending Head
At thy Feet its Honours shed,
While with joyful Foot the Swain
Beats the Glebe he plow'd with Pain.

Ode XIX. To Telephus.

When Inachus reign'd to Thee is notorious,
When slain for his Country was Codrus the glorious;
When govern'd the Monarchs from Peleus descended,
When Troy was besieg'd, and so bravely defended,
But where the best Chian, or what it may cost ye,
Or how we may warm the dull Winter so frosty,
Or temper our Water with Embers so glowing,
Ah! Telephus, here Thou art strangely unknowing.

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Here's a Bumper to Midnight; to Luna's first shining;
A third to our Friend in his Post of divining.
Come fill up the Bowl, then fill up your Bumpers,
Let three, or thrice three, be the jovial of Numbers.
The Poet, enraptur'd, sure never refuses
His Brimmers thrice three to his odd-number'd Muses;
But the Graces, in naked Simplicity cautious,
Are afraid more than three might to Quarrels debauch us.
Gay Frolic, and Mirth, to Madness shall fire us;
Why breathes not the Flute then with Joy to inspire us?
Why hangs on the Wall, in Silence dolorous,
The soft-swelling Pipe, and the Hautboy sonorous?
I hate all the Slaves, that are sparing of Labour;
Give us Roses abundant, and let our old Neighbour,

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With his Damsel, ill-suited to such an old Fellow,
Even burst with his Envy to hear us so mellow.
Poor Horace in Flames, how slowly consuming!
For Glycera burns, while Chloe the blooming
Her Telephus courts, whose Tresses are beaming,
As are the bright Rays from Vesperus streaming.

Ode XX. To Pyrrhus.

Pyrrhus, you tempt a Danger high,
When you would steal from angry Lioness her Cubs, and soon shall fly
Inglorious.
What Wars of horrid Form arise,
Through Crouds of Lovers when she flies
To seek her Boy, and snatch the Prize,
Victorious?
You shoot; she whets her Tusks to bite;
While He, who sits to judge the Fight,
Treads on the Palm with Foot so white,
Disdainful;

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And sweetly floating in the Air,
Wanton he spreads his fragrant Hair,
Like Ganymede, or Nireus fair,
And vainful.

Ode XXI. To his Cask.

Gentle Cask of mellow Wine,
And of equal Age with mine;
Whether you to Broils or Mirth,
Or to madding Love give Birth;
Or the Toper's Temples steep,
Sweetly in ambrosial Sleep;
For whatever various Use
You preserve the chosen Juice,
Worthy of some festal Hour,
Now the hoary Vintage pour:
Come—Corvinus, Guest divine,
Bids me draw my smoothest Wine.

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Though with Science deep imbued,
He not, like a Cynic rude,
Thee despises; for of old
Cato's Virtue, we are told,
Often with a Bumper glow'd,
And with social Raptures flow'd.

You by gentle Tortures oft
Melt hard Tempers into soft;
You strip off the grave Disguise
From the Counsels of the Wise,
And with Bacchus, blithe and gay,
Bring them to the Face of Day.
Hope by thee, fair Fugitive,
Bids the wretched strive to live;
To the Beggar you dispence
Heart and Brow of Confidence;
Warm'd by Thee He scorns to fear
Tyrant's Frown, or Soldier's Spear.

Bacchus boon, and Venus fair,
(If she come with chearful Air)
And the Graces, charming Band!
Ever dancing Hand in Hand;
And the living Taper's Flame,
Shall prolong thy purple Stream,
'Till returning Phœbus bright
Puts the lazy Stars to flight.

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Ode XXII. To Diana.

Of Groves and Mountains guardian Maid,
Invok'd by three mysterious Names;
Goddess three-form'd, whose willing Aid
With gracious Power appears display'd,
From Death to save our pregnant Dames:

To thee I consecrate the Pine,
Which nodding waves my Villa round,
And here, beneath thy hallow'd Shrine,
Yearly shall bleed a festal Swine,
That meditates the side-long Wound.

Ode XXIII. To Phidyle.

If on the new-born Moon, with Hands supine,
My Phidyle, laborious Rustic, prays;
If she with Incense, and a ravening Swine,
And yearly Fruits her Household Gods appease,

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Nor pestilential Storm shall smite her Vines,
Nor barren Mildew shall her Harvests fear,
Nor shall her Flocks, when the sad Year declines
Beneath its Fruitage, feel th'autumnal Air.

Let the devoted Herds, that lowing feed
In snow-top'd Algidum's high-branching Wood;
Or the fair Kine of rich Albania bleed,
And stain the Pontiff's hallow'd Axe with Blood;

The little Gods, around thy sacred Fire,
No vast Profusion of the Victim's Gore,
But pliant Myrtle Wreaths alone require,
And fragrant Herbs, the pious, rural Store.

A grateful Cake, when on the hallow'd Shrine
Offer'd by Hands, that know no guilty Stain,
Shall reconcile th'offended Powers divine,
When bleeds the pompous Hecatomb in vain.

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Ode XXIV. Against Misers.

Though of th'unrifled Gold possest
Of gorgeous Ind, and Araby the blest:
Though with hewn, massy Rocks You raise
Your haughty Structures midst th'indignant Seas,
Yet, soon as Fate shall round your Head,
With adamantine Strength, its Terrours spread,
Not all the Pomp of Earth shall save
Your Soul from Fear, your Body from the Grave.
Happy the Scythians, houseless Train!
Who roll their vagrant Dwellings o'er the Plain;
Happy the Getes fierce and brave,
Whom no fix'd Laws of Property enslave;
While open stands the golden Grain,
The freeborn Fruitage of th'unbounded Plain,
Succeeding yearly to the Toil,
They plow, with equal Tasks, the public Soil.

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Not there the guiltless Step-dame knows
The baleful Draught for Orphans to compose;
No Wife high-portion'd rules her Spouse,
Or trusts her essenc'd Lover's faithless Vows,
The Lovers there for Dowry claim
The Father's Virtue, and the spotless Fame,
Which dares not break the nuptial Tie,
Polluted Crime! whose Portion is to die.
Oh! that some Patriot, wise and good,
Would stop this impious Thirst of civil Blood,
And joy on Statues to behold
His Name, The Father of the State, enroll'd!
Oh! let him quell our spreading Shame,
And live to latest Times an honour'd Name.
Though living Virtue we despise,
We follow her, when dead, with envious Eyes.
But wherefore do we thus complain,
If Justice wear her awful Sword in vain?
And what are Laws, unless obey'd
By the same moral Virtues they were made?
If neither burning Heats extreme,
Where Eastern Phœbus darts his fiercest Beam,

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Nor where the Northern Tempests blow,
And freezes down to Earth th'eternal Show,
Nor the wild Terrours of the Main
Can daunt the Merchant, and his Voyage restrain;
If Want, ah dire Disgrace! we fear,
From thence with Vigour act, with Patience bear,
While Virtue's Paths untrodden lie,
Those Paths, that lead us upwards to the Sky?
Oh! let us consecrate to Jove
(Rome shall with Shouts the pious Deed approve)
Our Gems, our Gold, pernicious Store!
Or plunge into the Deep the baleful Ore.
If you indeed your Crimes detest,
Tear forth, uprooted from the youthful Breast,
The Seeds of each deprav'd Desire,
While manly Toils a firmer Soul inspire.
Nor knows our Youth, of noblest Race,
To mount the manag'd Steed, or urge the Chace;
More skill'd in the mean Arts of Vice,
The whirling Troque, or law-forbidden Dice:

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And yet this worthless Heir to raise
To hasty Wealth, the perjur'd Sire betrays
His Partners, Coheirs, and his Friends;
But, while in Heaps his wicked Wealth ascends,
He is not of his Wish possest,
There's something wanting still to make him blest.

Ode XXV. To Bacchus.

O Bacchus, when by Thee possest,
What hallow'd Spirit fills my raving Breast?
How am I rapt to dreary Glades,
To gloomy Caverns, unfrequented Shades?
In what Recesses shall I raise
My Voice to sacred Cæsar's deathless Praise,
Amid the Stars to bid him shine,
Rank'd in the Councils of the Powers divine?
Some bolder Song shall wake the Lyre,
And Sounds unknown its trembling Voice inspire.

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Thus o'er the steepy Mountain's Height,
Starting from Sleep, thy Priestess takes her Flight;
Amaz'd beholds the Thracian Snows,
With languid Streams where icy Heber flows,
Or Rhodope's high-towering Head,
Where frantick Quires barbarian Measures tread.
O'er pathless Rocks; through lonely Groves
With what Delight my raptur'd Spirit roves!
O Thou, who rul'st the Naiad's Breast;
By whom the Bacchanalian Maids, possest
With sacred Rage inspir'd by Thee,
Tear from the bursting Glebe th'uprooted Tree,
Nothing or low, or mean, I sing,
No mortal Sound shall shake the swelling String.
The venturous Theme my Soul alarms,
But warm'd by thee the Thought of Danger charms.
When Vine-crown'd Bacchus leads the Way,
What can his daring Votaries dismay?

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Ode XXVI. To Venus.

I lately was fit to be call'd upon Duty,
And gallantly fought in the Service of Beauty;
But now crown'd with Conquest I hang up my Arms,
My Harp, that campaign'd it in midnight Alarms.
Here fix on this Wall, here my Ensigns of Wars,
By the Statue of Venus, my Torches and Bars,
And Arrows, which threaten'd by Cupid their Liege,
War, War on all Doors, that would hold out a Siege.

O Goddess of Cyprus, and Memphis, that know,
Nor the Coldness or Weight of Love-chilling Snow,
With an high-lifted Stroke, yet gently severe,
Avenge me on Chloe the proud and the fair.

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Ode XXVII. To Galatea.

Fierce from her Cubs the ravening Fox
Or Wolf from steep Lanuvian Rocks,
Or pregnant Bitch, or chattering Jay,
Ill-omen'd guide the guilty on their Way;

Serpents, like Arrows, sidelong thwart
The Road, and make their Horses start;
But for the Maid, for whom I fear,
I view the doubtful Skies, a prudent Seer,

And bid the chaunting Raven rise
When Phœbus gilds his orient Skies,
Ere speeds the Shower-boding Crow
To Lakes, whose languid Waters cease to flow.

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Happy may Galatea prove,
Nor yet unmindful of our Love,
For now no luckless Pye prevails,
Nor vagrant Crow forbids the swelling Sails.

Yet see, what Storms tumultuous rise,
While prone Orion sweeps the Skies;
Too well I know the Adrian Main,
And Western Winds, perfidiously serene.

Oh! may the rising Tempest shake
Our Foes, and dreadful o'er them break;
For them the blackening Ocean roar,
And angry Surges lash the trembling Shore.

When on her Bull Europa rode,
Nor knew she press'd th'imperial God,
Bold as she was, th'affrighted Maid
The rolling Monsters of the Deep survey'd.

Late for the rural Nymphs she chose
Each Flower, a Garland to compose,
But now, beneath the Gloom of Night,
Views nought but Seas, and Stars of feeble Light.

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Soon as she touch'd the Cretan Shore,
My Sire, she cries,—Ah! mine no more,
For every pious, tender Name
Is madly lost in this destructive Flame.

Where am I, wretched and undone?
And shall a single Death atone
A Virgin's Crime? Or do my Fears
Deplore the guilty Deed with waking Tears?

Or am I yet, ah! pure from Shame,
Mock'd by a vain, delusive Dream?
Could I my springing Flowrets leave,
To tempt through Length of Seas the faithless Wave?

While thus with just Revenge possest,
How would I tear that monstrous Beast?
How would I break, by Rage inspir'd,
Those Horns, alas! too fondly once admir'd?

Shameless, my Father's Gods I fly;
Shameless, and yet I fear to die.
Hear me some gracious heavenly Power,
Let Lions fell this naked Corse devour.

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My Cheeks ere hollow Wrinkles seize,
Ere yet their rosy Bloom decays,
While Youth yet rolls its vital Flood,
Let Tygers fiercely riot in my Blood.

But hark! I hear my Father cry,
Make haste, unhappy Maid, to die,
For if a pendant Fate you chuse,
Your faithful Girdle gives the kindly Noose;

Or if you like an headlong Death,
Behold the pointed Rocks beneath;
Or plunge into the rapid Wave,
Nor live, on haughty Tasks, a Spinster-Slave,

Some rude Barbarian's Concubine,
Born as Thou art of Royal Line.
Here the perfidious-smiling Dame,
And idle Cupid to the Mourner came;

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A while She rallied with the Fair,
Then with a grave and serious Air,
Indulge, she cries, thy Rage no more,
This odious Bull shall yield him to thy Power.

Yet sigh no more, but think of Love,
For know Thou art the Wife of Jove;
Then learn to bear thy future Fame,
When Earth's wide Continent shall boast thy Name.

Ode XXVIII. To Lyde.

Say, what shall I do on the Festival Day
Of Neptune? Come, Lyde, without more Delay,
And broach the good Creature, invaulted that lies,
Cast off all Reserve, and be merry and wise.
The Evening approaches, You see, from yon Hill,
And yet, as if Phœbus, though winged, stood still,
You dally to bring Us a Cup of the best,
Condemn'd, like its Consul, ignobly to rest.

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With Voices alternate, the Sea-potent King,
And Nereids, with Ringlets of Azure we'll sing.
From the sweet-sounding Shell thy Hand shall araise
Latona's, and swift-darting Cynthia's Praise.
The gay-smiling Goddess of Love and Delight,
Who rules over Cnidos, and Cyclades bright,
And guiding her Swans with a soft silken Rein
Revisits her Paphos, shall crown the glad Strain.
Then to the good Night, while Bumpers elate us,
We'll sing a Farewel, and a decent Quietus.

Ode XXIX. To Mæcenas.

Descended from an ancient Line,
That once the Tuscan Sceptre sway'd,
Haste thee to meet the generous Wine,
Whose piercing is for Thee delay'd;
For Thee the fragrant Essence flows,
For Thee, Mæcenas, breathes the blooming Rose.

From the Delights, Oh! break away,
Which Tibur's marshy Prospect yields,
Nor with unceasing Joy survey
Fair Æsula's declining Fields;
No more the verdant Hills admire
Of Telegon, who kill'd his aged Sire.

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Instant forsake the joyless Feast,
Where Appetite in Surfeit dies,
And from the tower'd Structure haste,
That proudly threatens to the Skies;
From Rome and its tumultuous Joys,
Its Crouds, and Smoke, and Opulence, and Noise.

To frugal Treats, and humble Cells,
With grateful Change the Wealthy fly,
Where health-preserving Plainness dwells,
Far from the Carpet's gaudy Dye.
Such Scenes have charm'd the Pangs of Care,
And smooth'd the clouded Forehead of Despair.

Andromeda's conspicuous Sire
Now darts his hidden Beams from far;
The Lion shews his madning Fire,
And barks fierce Procyon's raging Star,
While Phœbus, with revolving Ray,
Brings back the Burnings of the thirsty Day.

Fainting beneath the sweltring Heat,
To cooling Streams, and breezy Shades
The Shepherd and his Flocks retreat,
While rustic Sylvans seek the Glades,
Silent the Brook its Borders laves,
Nor curls one vagrant Breath of Wind the Waves.

331

But you for Rome's imperial State
Attend with ever-watchful Care,
Or, for the World's uncertain Fate
Alarm'd, with ceaseless Terrours fear;
Anxious what Eastern Wars impend,
Or what the Scythians in their Pride intend.

But Jove, in Goodness ever wise,
Hath hid, in Clouds of depthless Night,
All that in future Prospect lies,
Beyond the Ken of mortal Sight,
And laughs to see vain Man opprest
With idle Fears, and more than Man di stist.

Then wisely form the present Hour;
Enjoy the Bliss which it bestows;
The rest is all beyond our Power;
And like the changeful Tiber flows,
Who now beneath his Banks subsides,
And peaceful to his native Ocean glides,

But when descends a sudden Shower
And wild provokes his silent Flood,
The Mountains hear the Torrent roar,
And Echoes shake the neighbouring Wood,
Then swollen with Rage He sweeps away
Uprooted Trees, Herds, Dwellings to the Sea.

333

Happy the Man, and He alone,
Who Master of himself can say,
To-day at least hath been my own,
For I have clearly liv'd To-day;
Then let To-morrow's Clouds arise,
Or purer Suns o'erspread the chearful Skies,

Not Jove himself can now make void
The Joy, that wing'd the flying Hour;
The certain Blessing once enjoy'd
Is safe beyond the Godhead's Power;
Nought can recall the acted Scene,
What hath been, spite of Jove himself, hath been.

But Fortune, ever-changing Dame,
Indulges her malicious Joy,
And constant plays her haughty Game,
Proud of her Office to destroy;
To-day to me her Bounty flows,
And now to others she the Bliss bestows.

I can applaud her while she stays,
But if she shake her rapid Wings,
I can resign, with careless Ease,
The richest Gifts her Favour brings,
Then folded lie in Virtue's Arms,
Ard honest Poverty's undower'd Charms.

Though the Mast howl beneath the Wind,
I make no mercenary Prayers,
Nor with the Gods a Bargain bind
With future Vows and streaming Tears,
To save my Wealth from adding more
To boundless Ocean's avaricious Store;

335

Then in my little Barge I'll ride,
Secure amid the foamy Wave,
Calm will I stem the threatening Tide,
And fearless all its Tumults brave;
Even then perhaps some kinder Gale,
While the Twin Stars appear, shall fill my joyful Sail.

Ode XXX. To Melpomene.

More durable than Brass, the Frame
Which here I consecrate to Fame;
Higher than Pyramids that rise,
With royal Pride, to brave the Skies;
Nor Years, though numberless the Train,
Nor Flight of Seasons, wasting Rain,
Nor Winds, that loud in Tempests break,
Shall e'er its firm Foundation shake.
Nor shall the funeral Pyre consume
My Fame; that nobler Part shall bloom,
And with unfading Youth improve,
While to th'immortal Fane of Jove

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The Vestal Maids, in silent State
Ascending, on the Pontiffe wait.

Where Aufidus with deafning Waves,
And rapid Course impetuous raves,
And where a poor, enervate Stream
From banish'd Daunus takes its Name,
O'er warlike Realms who fix'd his Throne,
Shall Horace, deathless Bard, be known,
Who first attempted to inspire,
With Grecian Sounds the Roman Lyre.
With conscious Pride, O Muse divine,
Assume the Honours justly thine,
With laurel Wreaths my Head surround,
Such as the God of Verse have crown'd.

End of the Third Book.

339

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Venus.

Again new Tumults fire my Breast;
Ah spare me, Venus, let thy Suppliant rest;
Alas! I am not now the Swain,
I was in Cynara's good-natur'd Reign.

341

Fierce Mother of the Loves, no more
Attempt to bend me to thy charming Power,
Harden'd with Age; but swift repair
Where Youth invokes Thee with the soothing Prayer.
Would you enflame, with young Desire,
A Bosom worthy of thy purest Fire,
To Paulus guide, a welcome Guest,
Thy purple Swans, and revel in his Breast.
Of noble Birth, and graceful made,
Nor silent when Affliction claims his Aid,
The Youth, of hundred conquering Arts,
Shall wave thy Banners wide o'er female Hearts;
But if thy powerful Aid he prove,
And laughs at Rivals, who with Gifts make Love,
Thou in a citron Dome shalt stand,
Form'd by the Sculptor's animating Hand;
There shall th'abundant Incense flame,
And Thou transported quaff the rising Steam,
While all the Powers of Music join
To raise the Song with Harmony divine.

343

There shall the Youths and Virgins pay
To Thee their grateful Offerings twice a-day,
Like Salian Priests the Dance shall lead,
And many a mazy Measure round Thee tread.
For me, alas! those Joys are o'er,
For me the vernal Garland blooms no more;
No more the Feats of Wine I prove,
Nor the delusive Hopes of mutual Love.
But why, ah! Fair-one, still too dear,
Steals down my Cheek th'involuntary Tear?
Or why, thus faulter o'er my Tongue
The Words, which once harmonious pour'd along?
Swift through the Fields, and flowing Streams,
I follow Thee in visionary Dreams,
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy Charms,
And now you burst, ah cruel! from my Arms.

345

Ode II. To Antonius Julus.

He, who to Pindar's Height attempts to rise,
Like Icarus, with waxen Pinions tries
His pathless Way, and from the venturous Theme
Shall leave to azure Seas his falling Name.
As when a River, swollen by sudden Showers
O'er its known Banks, from some steep Mountain pours,
So in profound, unmeasurable Song
The deep-mouth'd Pindar, foaming, pours along.
Well He deserves Apollo's laurel'd Crown,
Whether new Words He rolls enraptur'd down
Impetuous through the Dithyrambic Strains,
Free from all Laws, but what Himself ordains;

347

Whether in lofty Tone sublime He sings
The deathless Gods, or God-descended Kings,
With Death deserv'd who smote the Centaurs dire,
And quench'd the fierce Chimæra's Breath of Fire;
Or whom th'Olympic Palm, victorious Prize!
Immortal crowns, and raises to the Skies,
Wrestler or Steed—with Honours that outlive
The mortal Fame, which thousand Statues give:
Or mourns some hapless Youth in plaintive Lay,
From his fond, weeping Bride, ah! torn away,
His Manners pure, his Courage, and his Name,
Snatch'd from the Grave, He vindicates to Fame.
Thus when the Theban Swan attempts the Skies,
A nobler Gale of Rapture bids Him rise;
But like a Bee, which through the breezy Groves,
With feeble Wing and idle Murmurs roves,
Sits on the Bloom, and with unceasing Toil
From Thyme sweet-breathing culls his flowery Spoil,
So I, weak Bard! round Tibur's lucid Spring,
Of humble Strain laborious Verses sing.

349

'Tis thine with deeper Hand to strike the Lyre,
For Cæsar's Glory shall his Bard inspire,
When He, with Laurel crown'd, the Meed of War,
Drags the fierce Gaul at his triumphal Car;
Than whom the Gods ne'er gave, or bounteous Fate
To human Kind a Gift more good or great,
Nor from their Treasures shall again unfold,
Though Time roll backward to his ancient Gold.
Be thine the festal Days, the City's Joys,
The Forum silenc'd from litigious Noise,
The public Games for Cæsar safe restor'd,
A Blessing oft with pious Vows implor'd.
Then, if my Voice can reach the glorious Theme,
Thus will I sing, amid the loud Acclaim—
Hail brightest Sun; in Rome's fair Annals shine,
Cæsar returns—eternal Praise be thine.

351

As the Procession awful moves along,
Let Shouts of Triumph fill our joyful Song;
Repeated Shouts of Triumph Rome shall raise,
And to the bounteous Gods our Altars blaze.
Of thy fair Herds twice ten shall grateful bleed,
While I, with pious Care, one Steerling feed:
Wean'd from the Dam, o'er Pastures large he roves,
And for my Vows his rising Youth he proves;
His Horns like Luna's bending Fires appear,
When the third Night she rises to her Sphere;
And, yellow all the rest, one Mark there glows
Full in his Front, and bright as Winter Snows.

Ode III. To Melpomene.

He, on whose natal Hour the Queen
Of Verse hath smil'd, shall never grace
The Isthmian Gauntlet, or be seen
First in the fam'd Olympic Race:

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He shall not after Toils of War,
And taming haughty Monarchs' Pride,
With laurel'd Brows conspicuous far,
To Jove's Tarpeian Temple ride:

But Him, the Streams which warbling flow
Rich Tibur's fertile Vales along,
And shady Groves, his Haunts, shall know
The Master of th'Æolian Song.

The Sons of Rome, majestic Rome!
Have plac'd Me in the Poet's Quire,
And Envy, now or dead or dumb,
Forbears to blame what They admire.

Goddess of the sweet-sounding Lute,
Which thy harmonious Touch obeys,
Who canst the finny Race, though mute,
To Cygnet's dying Accents raise,

355

Thy Gift it is, that all, with Ease,
Me Prince of Roman Lyrics own;
That, while I live, my Numbers please,
If pleasing, is thy Gift alone.

Ode IV. The Praises of Drusus.

As the majestic Bird of towering Kind,
Who bears the Thunder through th'ætherial Space,
(To whom the Monarch of the Gods assign'd
Dominion o'er the vagrant, feather'd Race,
His Faith approv'd, when to the distant Skies
From Ida's Top he bore the Phrygian Prize)

Sprung from his Nest, by sprightly Youth inspir'd,
Fledg'd, and exulting in his native Might,
Novice to Toils, but as the Clouds retir'd,
And gentler Gales provok'd a bolder Flight,
On sailing Wings through yielding Air explor'd
Unwonted Paths, and panted while he soar'd:

357

Anon to ravage in the fleecy Fold,
The glowing Ardour of his princely Heart
Pour'd the beak'd Foe; now more maturely bold
With Talons fierce precipitant to dart
On Dragons fell, reluctant in the Fray;
Such is his Thirst for Battle, and for Prey.

Or as a Lion through the Forest stalks,
Wean'd by the tawny Dam from milky Food;
A Goat descries him from her flowery Walks,
First doom'd to stain his youthful Jaws with Blood:
So Drusus look'd tremendous to his Foes,
Beneath the frozen Height of Alpine Snows.

The Rhœtian Bands beheld him such in War,
Those daring Bands, who with triumphant Joy
Were wont to spread their baneful Terrours far,
Tam'd by the Conduct of the martial Boy,
Felt what true Courage could atchieve, when led
By bright Example, and by Virtue bred;

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Felt how Augustus with paternal Mind
Fir'd the young Neroes to heroic Deeds.
The Brave and Good are Copies of their Kind
In Steers laborious; and in generous Steeds
We trace their Sires, nor can the Bird of Jove,
Intrepid, fierce, beget th'unwarlike Dove.

Yet sage Instructions, to refine the Soul,
And raise the Genius, wonderous Aid impart,
Conveying, inward as they purely roll,
Strength to the Mind, and Vigour to the Heart:
When Morals fail, the Stains of Vice disgrace
The fairest Honours of the noblest Race.

How much the Grandeur of thy rising State
Owes to the Neroes, Rome imperial, say;
Witness Metaurus and the dismal Fate
Of vanquish'd Asdrubal, and that glad Day,
Which first auspicious, as the Darkness fled,
O'er Latium's Face a Tide of Glory shed.

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Through wide Hesperia's towering Cities, crush'd
With hideous Fall and Desolation dire,
Impetuous, wild the Carthaginian rush'd,
As through the pitchy Pines destructive Fire
Devours its Course, or howling Eurus raves,
And posting rides the mad Sicilian Waves.

The Roman Youth, still growing by their Toils
Have reap'd the Harvest of the vengeful Sword,
And seen those Temples, which were once the Spoils
Of Tyrian Rapine, to their Gods restor'd;
When faithless Hannibal at length express'd
The boding Sorrows of his anxious Breast:

363

Like Stags, of coward Kind, the destin'd Prey
Of ravening Wolves, we unprovok'd defy
Those, whom to baffle is our fairest Play,
The richest Triumph we can boast, to fly;
For mark that Race, from burning Troy which bore
Their Sons and Sages to the Latian Shore:

That Race, long tost upon the Tuscan Waves,
Are like an Oak upon the woody Top
Of shaded Algidus, bestrow'd with Leaves,
Which, as keen Axes its green Honours lop,
Through Wounds, through Losses no Decay can feel,
Collecting Strength, and Spirit from the Steel.

Not Hydra stronger, when dismember'd, rose
Against Alomena's much-enduring Son,
Grieving to find, from his repeated Blows
The Foe redoubled, and his Toil begun.
Nor Colchos teem'd, nor Echionian Thebes
A feller Monster from their bursting Glebes.

In Ocean plunge them, up they buoy more bright;
At Arms oppose them, they shall rout your Train
In Force united, and approv'd in Fight,
With total Ruin on the dusty Plain,
And Battles wage, to be the future Boast
Of their proud Consorts o'er our vanquish'd Host.

365

To lofty Carthage I no more shall send
Vaunts of my Deeds, and Heralds of my Fame;
My boundless Hopes, alas! are at an End
With all the flowing Fortune of our Name:
Those boundless Hopes, that flowing Fortune, all
Are dash'd, and bury'd in my Brother's Fall.

The Claudian Race, those Favourites of the Skies
No Toil shall damp, no Fortitude withstand;
Superior they to Difficulties rise,
Whom Jove protects with an indulgent Hand,
Whom cautious Cares, preventing Wiles afar,
Guide through the Perils of tumultuous War.

Ode V. To Augustus.

Propitious to the Sons of Earth
(Best Guardian of the Roman State)
The heavenly Powers beheld thy Birth,
And form'd thee glorious, good and great;
Rome and her holy Fathers cry, thy Stay
Was promis'd short, ah! wherefore this Delay?

367

Come then, auspicious Prince, and bring,
To thy long gloomy Country, Light,
For in thy Countenance the Spring
Shines forth to chear thy People's Sight;
Then hasten thy Return, for, Thou away,
Nor Lustre has the Sun, nor Joy the Day.

As a fond Mother views with Fear
The Terrours of the rolling Main,
While envious Winds, beyond his Year,
From his lov'd Home her Son detain;
To the good Gods with fervent Prayer she cries,
And catches every Omen as it flies;

Anxious she listens to the Roar
Of Winds that loudly sweep the Sky;
Nor fearful from the winding Shore,
Can ever turn her longing Eye;
Smit with as faithful and as fond Desires,
Impatient Rome her absent Lord requires.

Safe by thy Cares her Oxen graze,
And yellow Ceres clothes her Fields:
The Sailor plows the peaceful Seas,
And Earth her rich Abundance yields,
While nobly conscious of unsullied Fame,
Fair Honour dreads th'imputed Sense of Blame.

369

By Thee our wedded Dames are pure
From foul Adultery's Embrace;
The conscious Father views secure
His own Resemblance in his Race:
Thy chaste Example quells the spotted Deed,
And to the Guilt thy Punishments succeed.

Who shall the faithless Parthian dread,
The freezing Armies of the North,
Or the fierce Youth, to Battle bred,
Whom horrid Germany brings forth?
Who shall regard the War of cruel Spain,
If Cæsar live secure, if Cæsar reign?

Safe in his Vineyard toils the Hind,
Weds to the widow'd Elm his Vine,
'Till the Sun sets his Hill behind,
Then hastens joyful to his Wine,
And in his Hours of Mirthfulness implores
Thy Godhead to protect and bless his Stores.

To Thee He chaunts the sacred Song,
To Thee the rich Libation pours;
Thee, plac'd his Houshold Gods among,
With solemn daily Prayer adores;
So Castor and great Hercules of old
Were with her Gods by grateful Greece enroll'd.

371

Gracious and good, beneath thy Reign
May Rome her happy Hours employ,
And grateful hail thy just Domain
With pious Hymns and festal Joy:
Thus, with the rising Sun we sober pray,
Thus, in our Wine beneath his setting Ray.

Ode VII. To Torquatus.

The Snow dissolves; the Field its Verdure spreads;
The Trees high wave in Air their leafy Heads;
Earth feels the Change; the Rivers calm subside,
And smooth along their Banks decreasing glide;

373

The elder Grace, with her fair Sister-Train,
In naked Beauty dances o'er the Plain;
The circling Hours, that swiftly wing their Way,
And in their Flight consume the smiling Day;
Those circling Hours, and all the various Year,
Convince us, nothing is immortal here.

In vernal Gales cold Winter melts away;
Soon wastes the Spring in Summer's burning Ray:
Yet Summer dies in Autumn's fruitful Reign,
And slow-pac'd Winter soon returns again.
The Moon renews her Orb with growing Light,
But when we sink into the Depths of Night,
Where all the Good, the Rich, the Brave are laid,
Our best Remains are Ashes and a Shade.

Who knows if Heaven, with ever-bounteous Power,
Shall add To-morrow to the present Hour?
But know, that Wealth, bestow'd to gay Delight,
Far from thy ravening Heir shall speed its Flight;

375

But soon as Minos, thron'd in awful State,
Shall o'er thee speak the solemn Words of Fate,
Nor Virtue, Birth, nor Eloquence divine,
Shall bid the Grave its destin'd Prey resign:
Nor chaste Diana from infernal Night
Could bring her modest Favourite back to Light;
And hell-descending Theseus strove in vain
To break his amorous Friend's Lethæan Chain.

377

Ode VIII. To Censorinus.

With liberal Heart to every Friend
A Bowl or Cauldron would I send;
Or Tripods, which the Grecians gave,
As rich Rewards, to Heroes brave;
Nor should the meanest Gift be thine,
If the rich Works of Art were mine,
By Scopas, or Parrhasius wrought,
With animating Skill who taught
The shapeless Stone with Life to glow,
Or bad the breathing Colours flow,
To imitate, in every Line,
The Form or human or divine.

But I nor boast the curious Store,
And you nor want, nor wish for more;
'Tis yours the Joys of Verse to know,
Such Joys as Horace can bestow,
While I can vouch my Present's Worth,
And call its every Virtue forth.

Nor Columns, which the Public raise,
Engrav'd with monumental Praise,
By which the Breath of Life returns
To Heroes sleeping in their Urns;

379

Nor Hannibal, when swift he fled,
His Threats retorted on his Head,
Nor impious Carthage wrapt in Flame,
From whence great Scipio gain'd a Name.
Such Glories round him can diffuse
As the Calabrian Poet's Muse;
And should the Bard his Aid deny
Thy Worth shall unrewarded die.

If envious Silence left unsung
The Youth from Mars and Ilia sprung,
How had we known the Hero's Fame
From whom the Roman Empire came?
The Poet's Credit, Voice and Lays,
Could Æacus immortal raise,
Snatch'd from the Stygian Gulphs of Hell,
Among the blissful Isles to dwell.

The Muse forbids the Brave to die,
The Muse enthrones Him in the Sky;

381

Alcides, mid the starry Pole,
Thus quaffs with Jove the nectar'd Bowl;
Thus Vine-crown'd Bacchus with Success
His jovial Votaries can bless,
And the Twin-Stars have Power to save
The shatter'd Vessel from the gulphy Wave.

Ode IX. To Lollius.

While with the Grecian Bards I vye,
And raptur'd tune the social String,
Think not the Song shall ever die,
Which with no vulgar Art I sing,
Though born where Aufid rolls his sounding Stream,
In Lands far distant from poetic Fame.

What though the Muse her Homer thrones
High above all th'immortal Quire,
Nor Pindar's Rapture She disowns,
Nor hides the plaintive Cæan Lyre;
Alcæus strikes the Tyrant's Soul with dread,
Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread.

383

Whatever old Anacreon sung,
However tender was the Lay,
In spite of Time is ever young,
Nor Sappho's amorous Flames decay;
Her living Songs preserve their charming Art,
Her Love still breathes the Passions of her Heart.

Helen was not the only Fair,
By an unhappy Passion fir'd,
Who the lewd Ringlets of the Hair
Of an adulterous Beau admir'd;
Court Arts, Gold Lace, and Equipage have Charms
To tempt weak Woman to a Stranger's Arms.

Nor first from Teucer's vengeful Bow
The feather'd Death unerring flew,
Nor was the Greek the single Foe,
Whose Rage ill-fated Ilion knew;
Greece had with Heroes fill'd th'embattled Plain,
Worthy the Muse in her sublimest Strain.

Nor Hector first transported heard
With fierce Delight the War's Alarms,
Nor brave Deïphobus appear'd
Amid the tented Field in Arms,
With glorious Ardour prodigal of Life,
To guard a darling Son, and faithful Wife.

385

Before great Agamemnon reign'd,
Reign'd Kings as great as He, and brave,
Whose huge Ambition's now contain'd
In the small Compass of a Grave;
In endless Night they sleep, unwept, unknown,
No Bard had They to make all Time their own.

In Earth if it forgotten lies,
What is the Valour of the Brave?
What Difference, when the Coward dies,
And sinks in Silence to his Grave?
Nor, Lollius, will I not thy Praise proclaim,
But from Oblivion vindicate thy Fame.

Nor shall its livid Power conceal
Thy Toils—how glorious to the State!
How constant to the public Weal
Through all the doubtful Turns of Fate!
Thy steady Soul, by long Experience found
Erect alike, when Fortune smil'd, or frown'd.

Villains, in public Rapine bold,
Lollius, the just Avenger, dread,
Who never by the Charms of Gold,
Shining Seducer! was misled;
Beyond thy Year such Virtue shall extend,
And Death alone thy Consulate shall end.

387

Perpetual Magistrate is He,
Who keeps strict Justice full in Sight;
With Scorn rejects th'Offender's Fee,
Nor weighs Convenience against Right;
Who bids the Croud at awful Distance gaze,
And Virtue's Arms victoriously displays.

Not He, of Wealth immense possest,
Tasteless who piles his massy Gold,
Among the Number of the Blest
Should have his glorious Name enroll'd;
He better claims the glorious Name, who knows
With Wisdom to enjoy what Heaven bestows:

Who knows the Wrongs of Want to bear,
Even in its lowest, last Extreme;
Yet can with conscious Virtue fear,
Far worse than Death, a Deed of Shame;
Undaunted, for his Country or his Friend,
To sacrifice his Life—O glorious End.

389

Ode X. To Ligurinus.

O cruel still and vain of Beauty's Charms,
When wintry Age thy Insolence disarms;
When fall those Locks that on thy Shoulders play,
And Youth's gay Roses on thy Cheeks decay;
When that smooth Face shall Manhood's Roughness wear,
And in your Glass another Form appear,
Ah why! you'll say, do I now vainly burn,
Or with my Wishes, not my Youth return.

391

Ode XI. To Phyllis.

Phyllis, this Alban Cask is thine,
Mellow'd by Summers more than nine,
And in my Garden, for thy Head
My Parsly-Crowns their Verdure spread:
For Thee the creeping Ivy twines,
With Plate my chearful Dwelling shines:
With Vervain chaste an Altar bound,
Now thirsts for Blood; the Victim's crown'd.

All Hands employ'd; my Girls and Boys,
With busy Haste, prepare our Joys;
Trembling the pointed Flames arise,
Their Smoke rolls upward to the Skies,
But why this busy, festal Care?
This Invitation to the Fair?
This Day the smiling Month divides,
O'er which the Sea-born Queen presides;

393

Sacred to Me, and due to Mirth,
As the glad Hour that gave me Birth;
For when this happy Morn appears,
Mæcenas counts a Length of Years
To roll in bright Succession round,
With every Joy and Blessing crown'd.

Gay Telephus exults above
The humble Fortunes of thy Love,
And a rich, buxom Maid detains
His captive Heart in willing Chains.

The Youth, destroy'd by heavenly Fire,
Forbids Ambition to aspire,
And Pegasus, who scorn'd to bear
His earth-born Rider through the Air,
A dread Example hath supply'd
To check the Growth of human Pride,
And caution my presumptuous Fair
To grasp at Things within her Sphere.

Come then my latest Love (for I
Shall never for another die)
Come learn with me to newer Lays
Thy Voice of Harmony to raise.
The soothing Song, and charming Air
Shall lessen every gloomy Care.

395

Ode XII. To Virgil.

Companions of the Spring, the Thracian Winds
With kindly Breath now drive the Bark from Shore;
No Frost, with hoary Hand, the Meadow binds,
Nor swollen with wintry Snow the Torrents roar.

The Swallow, hapless Bird! now builds her Nest,
And in complaining Notes begins to sing,
That, with Revenge too cruelly possest,
Impious She punish'd an incestuous King.

Stretch'd on the springing Grass the Shepherd Swain
His reedy Pipe with rural Music fills;
The God, who guards his Flock, approves the Strain,
The God, who loves Arcadia's gloomy Hills.

397

Virgil, 'tis thine, with noble Youths to feast,
Yet, since the thirsty Season calls for Wine,
Would you a Cup of generous Bacchus taste,
Bring you the Odours, and a Cask is thine.

Thy little Box of Spikenard shall produce
A mighty Cask, that in the Cellar lies;
Big with large Hopes shall flow th'inspiring Juice,
Powerful to sooth our Griefs, and raise our Joys.

If Pleasures such as these can charm thy Soul,
Bring the glad Merchandise, with Sweets replete,
Nor empty-handed shall you touch the Bowl,
Nor do I mean, like wealthy Folk, to treat.

Think on the gloomy Pyle's funereal Flame,
And be no more with sordid Lucre blind;
Mix a short Folly with the labour'd Scheme;
'Tis joyous Folly, that unbends the Mind.

399

Ode XIII. To Lyce.

The Gods, the Gods have heard my Prayer,
See, Lyce, see that hoary Hair,
Yet you a Toast would shine:
You impudently drink and joke,
And with a broken Voice provoke
Desires no longer thine.

Cupid, who joys in Dimple sleek,
Now lies in blooming Chia's Cheek,
Who tunes the melting Lay;
From blasted Oaks the Wanton flies,
Scar'd at thy Wrinkles, haggard Eyes,
And Head snow'd o'er with Grey.

Nor glowing Purple, nor the Blaze
Of Jewels, can restore the Days;
To Thee those Days of Glory,
Which, wafted on the Wings of Time,
Even from thy Birth to Beauty's Prime,
Recorded stand in Story.

401

Ah! whither is thy Venus fled?
That Bloom, by Nature's Cunning spread?
That every graceful Art?
Of Her, of Her, what now remains,
Who breath'd the Loves, who charm'd the Swains,
And snatch'd me from my Heart?

Once happy Maid, in pleasing Wiles
You vied with Cynara in Smiles,
Ah! tragical Survival!
She glorious died in Beauty's Bloom,
While cruel Fate defers thy Doom
To be the Raven's Rival,

That Youths, in fervent Wishes bold,
Not without Laughter may behold
A Torch, whose early Fire
Could every Breast with Love enflame,
Now faintly spread a sickly Gleam,
And in a Smoke expire.

403

Ode XIV. To Augustus.

How shall our holy Senate's Care,
Or Rome with grateful Joy prepare
Thy monumental Honours big with Fame,
And in her festal Annals eternise thy Name?

O Thou, where Sol with kindly Rays
The habitable Globe surveys,
Greatest of Princes, whose vindictive War,
First broke th'unconquer'd Gaul to thy triumphal Car.

For when thy Legions Drusus led,
How swift the rapid Breuni fled!
The rough Genauni fell, and, rais'd in vain
Tremendous on the Alpes, twice overwhelm'd the Plain

405

Their haughty Towers. With just Success
While the good Gods thy Battle bless,
Our elder Nero smote with deep Dismay
The Rhœtians, huge of Bulk, and broke their firm Array.

Conspicuous in the martial Strife,
And nobly prodigal of Life,
With what prodigious Ruins he opprest
For glorious Liberty the death-devoted Breast!

As when the Pleiads rend the Skies
In mystic Dance, the Winds arise,
And work the Seas untam'd; such was the Force,
With which, through spreading Fires, he spurr'd his foaming Horse.

So branching Ausidus, who laves
The Daunian Realms, fierce rolls his Waves,
When to the golden Labours of the Swain,
He meditates his Wrath, and deluges the Plain,

407

As Claudius, with impetuous Might,
Broke through the iron Ranks of Fight;
From Front to Rear the bloodless Victor sped,
Mow'd down th'embattled Field, and wide the Slaughter spread.

Thine were his Troops, his Counsels thine,
And all his guardian Powers divine:
For since the Day, when Alexandria's Port
Open'd, in Suppliance low, her desolated Court,

When thrice five Times the circling Sun
His annual Course of Light had run,
Fortune by this Success hath crown'd thy Name,
Confirm'd thy Glories past, and rais'd thy future Fame.

Dread Guardian of th'imperial State,
Whose Presence rules thy Country's Fate,
On whom the Medes with awful Wonder gaze,
Whom unhous'd Scythians fear, unconquer'd Spain obeys;

409

Nilus, who hides his sevenfold Source,
The Tigris, headlong in his Course,
The Danube and the Ocean wild that roars
With Monster-bearing Waves, round Britain's rocky Shores,

The fearless Gaul thy Fame reveres,
Thy Voice the rough Iberian hears,
With Arms compos'd the fierce Sicambrians yield,
Nor view, with dire Delight, the Carnage of the Field.

Ode XV. To Augustus.

I would have sung of Battles dire
And mighty Cities overthrown,
When Phœbus smote me with his Lyre,
And warn'd me with an angry Tone,
Not to unfold my little Sail, or brave
The boundless Terrours of the Tyrrhene Wave.

411

Yet will I sing thy peaceful Reign,
Which crowns with Fruits our happy Fields,
And rent from Parthia's haughty Fane
To Roman Jove his Eagles yields;
Augustus bids the Rage of War to cease,
And shuts up Janus in eternal Peace.

Restrain'd by Arts of ancient Fame,
Wild Licence walks at large no more,
Those Arts, by which the Latian Name,
The Roman Strength, th'imperial Power,
With awful Majesty unbounded spread
To rising Phœbus from his western Bed.

413

While watchful Cæsar guards our Age,
Nor civil Wrath, nor loud Alarms
Of foreign Tumults, nor the Rage,
That joys to forge destructive Arms,
And ruin'd Cities fills with hostile Woes,
Shall e'er disturb, O Rome, thy safe Repose.

Nations, who quaff the rapid Stream,
Where deep the Danube rolls his Wave;
The Parthians, of perfidious Fame,
The Getæ fierce, and Seres brave,
And they, on Tanaïs who wide extend,
Shall to the Julian Laws reluctant bend.

Our Wives, and Children share our Joy,
With Bacchus' jovial Blessings gay;
Thus we the festal Hours employ,
Thus grateful hail the busy Day;
But first, with solemn Rites the Gods adore,
And, like our Sires, their sacred Aid implore;

Then vocal, with harmonious Lays
To Lydian Flutes, of chearful Sound,
Attemper'd sweetly, we shall raise
The valiant Deeds of Chiefs renown'd,
Old Troy, Anchises, and the godlike Race
Of Venus, blooming with immortal Grace.

END of the Fourth Book.

415

THE BOOK OF THE EPODES of HORACE.

Epode I. To Mæcenas.

While you, Mæcenas, dearest Friend,
Would Cæsar's Person with your own defend:
And Antony's high-tower'd Fleet,
With light, Liburnian Gallies fearless meet,

417

What shall forsaken Horace do,
Whose every Joy of Life depends on You?
With Thee, 'tis Happiness to live,
And Life, without Thee, can no Pleasure give.
Shall I th'unkind Command obey,
And idly waste my joyless Hours away;
Or, as becomes the Brave, embrace
The glorious Toil, and spurn the Thoughts of Peace?
I will; and over Alpine Snow,
Or savage Caucasus intrepid go;
Or follow, with undaunted Breast,
Thy dreadful Warfare to the farthest West.
You ask, what Aid can I afford,
A puny Warrior; Novice to the Sword;
Absence, my Lord, increases Fear;
The Danger lessens when the Friend is near;
Thus, if the Mother-Bird forsake
Her unfledg'd Young, She dreads the gliding Snake,
With deeper Agonies afraid,
Not that her Presence could afford them Aid.

419

With chearful Heart will I sustain,
To purchase your Esteem, this dread Campaign,
Not that my Plows, with heavier Toil,
Or with a larger Team, may turn my Soil;
Not that my Flocks, when Sirius reigns,
May browze the Verdure of Lucania's Plains;
Not that my Villa shall extend
To where the Walls of Tusculum ascend.
Thy Bounty largely hath supplied,
Even with a lavish Hand, my utmost Pride;
Nor will I meanly wish for more,
Tasteless in Earth to hide the sordid Store,
Like an old Miser in the Play,
Or like a Rake to squander it away.

421

Epode II. The Praises of a Country-Life.

Like the first Mortals blest is He,
From Debts, and Mortgages, and Business free,
With his own Team who plows the Soil,
Which grateful once confess'd his Father's Toil.
The Sounds of War nor break his Sleep,
Nor the rough Storm that harrows up the Deep;
He shuns the Courtier's haughty Doors,
And the loud Science of the Bar abjures.
Sometimes his marriageable Vines
Around the lofty Bridegroom Elm he twines,
Or lops the vagrant Boughs away,
Ingrafting better as the old decay;

423

Or in the lengthening Vale surveys
His lowing Herd safe-wandering as they graze;
Or careful stores the flowing Gold
Prest from the Hive, or sheers his tender Fold;
Or when with various Fruits o'erspread
The mellow Autumn lifts his beauteous Head,
His grafted Pears or Grapes that vye
With the rich Purple of the Tyrian Dye,
Grateful he gathers, and repays
His Guardian Gods on their own festal Days.
Sometimes beneath an ancient Shade,
Or careless on the matted Grass he's laid,
While glide the Mountain Streams along,
And Birds in Forests chaunt their plaintive Song;
Murmuring the lucid Fountain flows,
And with its Murmurs courts him to Repose.
But when the Rain and Snows appear,
And wintry Jove loud thunders o'er the Year,
With Hounds he drives, into the Toils,
The foaming Boar, and triumphs in his Spoils:

425

Or for voracious Thrushes lays
His Nets, and with delusive Baits betrays;
Or artful sets the springing Snare,
To catch the stranger Crane, or timorous Hare.
Thus happy, who would stoop to prove
The Pains, the Wrongs, and Injuries of Love?
But if a chaste and virtuous Wife
Assist him in the tender Cares of Life,
Of Sun-burnt Charms, but honest Fame
(Such as the Sabine, or Apulian Dame)
If, ere her wearied Spouse return,
The sacred Fire with good old Timber burn;
Or if she milk her swelling Kine,
Or in their Folds his happy Flocks confine;
If unbought Dainties crown their Feast,
And luscious Wines from this Year's Vintage prest;
No more should curious Oysters please,
Or Fish, the Luxury of foreign Seas,
(If Eastern Tempests, thundering o'er
The wintry Wave, shall drive them to our Shore)
Nor Wild-Fowl of delicious Taste,
From distant Climates brought to crown the Feast,

427

Shall e'er so grateful prove to me,
As Olives gather'd from their unctuous Tree,
Or Herbs, that love the flowery Field,
And chearful Health with pure Digestion yield;
Or Fatling, on the festal Day,
Or Kid just rescued from some Beast of Prey.
Amid the Feast how joys he to behold
His well-fed Flocks home hasting to their Fold!
Or see his labour'd Oxen bow
Their languid Necks, and drag th'inverted Plow,
At Night his numerous Slaves to view
Round his domestic Gods their Mirth pursue!
The Usurer spoke; determin'd to begin
A Country-Life, he calls his Money in,
But, ere the Moon was in her Wane,
The Wretch had put it out to Use again.

429

Epode III. To Mæcenas.

If Parricide ever, in Horrours most dire,
With impious right Hand shall strangle his Sire,
On Garlick, than Hemlock more rank, let Him feed:
O Stomachs of Mowers to digest such a Weed!
What Poison is this in my Bosom so glowing?
Have I swallow'd the Gore of a Viper unknowing?
Canidia perhaps hath handled the Feast,
And with Witchery hellish the Banquet hath drest.
With this did Medea her Lover besmear,
Young Jason, beyond all his Argonauts fair;
The Stench was so strong, that it tam'd to the Yoke
The Brass-footed Bulls breathing Fire and Smoke.
On the Gown of Creüsa its Juices She shed,
Then on her wing'd Chariot in Triumph she fled.
Not such the strong Vapour, that burns up the Plains,
When the Dogstar in Anger triumphantly reigns;

431

Not the Shirt of Alcides, that well-labour'd Soldier,
With Flames more envenom'd burn'd into his Shoulder.

May the Girl of your Heart, if ever You taste,
Facetious Mæcenas, so baleful a Feast,
Her Hand o'er your Kisses, Oh, may She bespread,
And lie afar off on the Stock of the Bed.

Epode IV.

[As Wolves and Lambs by Nature disagree]

As Wolves and Lambs by Nature disagree,
So is my Hatred firm to Thee;
Thou Wretch, whose Back with flagrant Whips is torn;
Whose Legs with galling Fetters worn;

433

Though Wealth thy native Insolence enflame,
A Scoundrel ever is the same.
While You your twice three Ells of Gown display,
And stalk along the Sacred Way,
Observe the free-born Indignation rise,
Mark! how they turn away their Eyes;
This Wretch, they cry, with public Lashing flay'd,
'Till even the Beadle loath'd his Trade,
Now plows his thousand Acres of Demaine,
And wears the Pavement with his Train;
Now on the foremost Benches sits, in spite
Of Otho, an illustrious Knight.

435

From Slaves and Pirates to assert the Main,
Shall Rome such mighty Fleets maintain,
And shall those Fleets, that dreadful rule the Sea,
A Pirate and a Slave obey?

Epode V: On the Witch Canidia.

But oh, ye Gods, whose awful Sway
Heaven, Earth, and human Kind obey,
What can this hideous Noise intend,
On me what ghastly Looks they bend?

If ever chaste Lucina heard
Thy Vows in Hour of Birth prefer'd;
Oh! by this Robe's impurpled Train,
Its purple Pride, alas! how vain!
By the unerring Wrath of Jove,
Unerring shall his Vengeance prove;

437

Why like a Step-Dame do you look,
Or Tygress fell by Hunter struck?

Thus, while his sacred Robes they tear,
The trembling Boy prefers his Prayer;
Then naked stands, with Charms to move
An impious Thracian Witch to Love.
Canidia, crown'd with writhing Snakes
Dishevell'd, thus the Silence breaks,
‘Now the magic Fire prepare,
‘And from Graves uprooted tear
‘Trees, whose Horrours gloomy spread
‘Round the Mansions of the Dead;
‘Bring the Eggs, and Plumage foul
‘Of a midnight shrieking Owl;
‘Be they well besmear'd with Blood
‘Of the blackest-venom'd Toad;
‘Bring the choicest Drugs of Spain,
‘Produce of the poisonous Plain;
‘Then into the Charm be thrown,
‘Snatch'd from famish'd Bitch, a Bone;
‘Burn them all with magic Flame,
‘Kindled first by Colchian Dame.’
Now Sagana, around the Cell
Sprinkled her Waters black from Hell;

439

Fierce as a Porcupine, or Boar,
In frightful Wreaths her Hair she wore.

Veia, who never knew Remorse,
Uplifts the Spade with feeble Force,
And breathless with the horrid Toil,
Deep-groaning breaks the guilty Soil,
Turns out the Earth, and digs a Grave
In which the Boy (as o'er the Wave
A lusty Swimmer lifts his Head)
Chin-deep sinks downward to the Dead,
O'er Dainties, chang'd twice thrice a-day,
Slowly to gaze his Life away,
That the foul Hags an amorous Dose
Of his parch'd Marrow may compose,
His Marrow, and his Liver dry'd,
The Seat where wanton Thoughts reside,
When fix'd upon his Food in vain,
His Eye-balls pin'd away with Pain.

Naples, for Idleness renown'd,
And all the Villages around,
Believe that Folia shar'd their Rites,
She who in monstrous Lusts delights,
Whose Voice the Stars from Heaven can tear,
And charm bright Luna from her Sphere.

441

Here, with black Tooth, and livid Jaws,
Her unpar'd Thumbs Canidia gnaws,
And into hideous Accents broke,
In Sounds, how direful! thus she spoke,

Ye Powers of Darkness and of Hell,
Propitious to the magic Spell,
Who rule in Silence o'er the Night,
While we perform the mystic Rite,
Be present now, your Horrours shed,
In hallow'd Vengeance, on his Head.

Beneath the Forest's gloomy Shade,
While Beasts in Slumbers sweet are laid,
Give me the Lecher, old and lewd,
By barking Village-Curs pursued,
Expos'd to Laughter, let him shine
In Essence—ah! that once was mine.
What! do my strongest Potions fail,
Or than Medea's less prevail?
For the fair Harlot, proud of Heart
Deep felt the Vengeance of her Art;
Her Gown, with powerful Poisons dyed,
In Flames enwrap'd the guilty Bride.
But every Root and Herb I know,
And on what steepy Depths they grow,
And yet, with Essence round him shed,
He sleeps in some bold Harlot's Bed,

443

Or walks at large, nor thinks of me,
By some more mighty Witch set free.

But soon the Wretch my Wrath shall prove,
By Spells unwonted taught to love,
Nor shall even Marsian Charms have Power,
Thy Peace, O Varus, to restore.
I'll fill, to bend thy haughty Soul,
With stronger Drugs a larger Bowl.
Sooner the Seas to Heaven shall rise,
And Earth spring upwards to the Skies,
Than you not burn in fierce Desire,
As melts this Pitch in smoaky Fire.

The Boy, with lenient Words no more,
Now strives their Pity to implore;
With Rage yet doubtful what to speak,
Forth from his Lips these Curses break—
Your Spells may Right and Wrong remove,
But ne'er shall change the Wrath of Jove,
For while I curse the direful Deed,
In vain shall all your Victims bleed.

445

Soon as this mortal Spirit dies,
A midnight Fury will I rise:
Then shall my Ghost, though form'd of Air,
Your Cheeks with crooked Talons tear,
Unceasing on your Entrails prey,
And fright the Thoughts of Sleep away;
Such Horrours shall the Guilty know,
Such is the Power of Gods below.

Ye filthy Hags, with Showers of Stones
The vengeful Croud shall crush your Bones;
Then Beasts of Prey, and Birds of Air,
Shall your unburied Members tear,
And, while they weep their favourite Boy,
My Parents shall the vengeful Sight enjoy.

Epode VI. To Cassius Severus.

Why dost Thou, fearful to provoke
The Wolf, attack offenceless Folk?
Turn hither, if you dare, your Spite,
And bark at Me, prepar'd to bite.

447

For like a Hound or Mastiff keen,
That guards the Shepherd's flocky Green,
With Ears erect, and eager Haste,
Through Snows I drive each ravening Beast;
But You, when with your hideous Yelling
You fill the Grove, at Crusts are smelling.

Beware, beware; for, sharp as Spurs,
I lift my Horns to butt at Curs;
Fierce as Archilochus I glow;
Like Hipponax a deadly Foe.
If any Mungrel shall assail
My Character with Tooth and Nail;
What! like a Truant Boy, shall I
Do nothing in Revenge—but cry?

Epode VII. To the Roman People.

Whither, Oh! whither do Ye madly run,
The Sword unsheath'd and impious War begun?
Has then too little of the Latian Blood
Been pour'd on Earth, or mix'd with Neptune's Flood?

449

'Tis not that Romans with avenging Flame
Might burn the Rival of the Roman Name,
Or Britons, yet unbroken to our War,
In Chains should follow our triumphal Car,
But that the Parthian should his Vows enjoy,
And Rome, with impious Hand, Herself destroy.

The Rage of Wolves and Lions is confin'd;
They never prey but on a different Kind.
Answer, from Madness rise these Horrours dire?
Does angry Fate, or Guilt your Souls inspire?
Silent they stand; with stupid Wonder gaze,
While the pale Cheek their inward Guilt betrays.
'Tis so—The Fates have cruelly decreed,
That Rome for ancient Fratricide must bleed;
The Brother's Blood, which stain'd our rising Walls,
On his Descendants, loud, for Vengeance calls.

451

Epode IX. To Mæcenas.

When shall we quaff, my Lord, the flowing Wine,
Reserv'd for pious Feasts, and Joys divine?
Cæsar with Conquest comes, and gracious Jove,
Who gave that Conquest, shall our Joys approve:
Then bid the Breath of Harmony inspire
The Doric Flute, and wake the Phrygian Lyre;
As late when the Neptunian Youth, who spurn'd
A mortal Birth, beheld his Navy burn'd,
And fled affrighted through his Father's Waves,
With his perfidious Host; his Host of Slaves,
Freed from those Chains, with which his Rage design'd,
Impious! the freeborn Sons of Rome to bind.

453

The Roman Troops (Oh! be the Tale denied
By future Times) enslav'd to Woman's Pride,
And to a wither'd Eunuch's Will severe
Basely subdued, the Toils of War could bear.
Amidst the Roman Eagles Sol survey'd,
O Shame! th'Ægyptian Canopy display'd;
When twice a thousand Gauls aloud proclaim,
Indignant at the Sight, great Cæsar's Name,
And a brave Fleet, by just Resentment led,
Turn'd their broad Prows, and to our Havens fled.

Come, God of Triumphs, bring the golden Car,
The untam'd Heifers, and the Spoils of War,
For He, whose Virtue rais'd his awful Tomb
O'er ruin'd Carthage, ne'er return'd to Rome
So great and glorious, nor could Lybia's Field
To Thee, O Triumph, such a Leader yield.

455

Pursued by Land and Sea, the vanquish'd Foe
Hath chang'd his Purple for the Garb of Woe;
With Winds, no more his own; with shatter'd Fleet,
He seeks the far-fam'd hundred Towns of Crete;
To tempest-beaten Lybia speeds his Way,
Or drives a Vagrant through th'uncertain Sea.

Boy, bring us larger Bowls, and fill them round
With Chian, or the Lesbian Vintage crown'd,
Or rich Cæcubian, which may best restrain
These sickening Qualms, and fortify the Brain.
Th'inspiring Juice shall the gay Banquet warm,
Nor Cæsar's Danger shall our Fears alarm.

Epode X. To Mævius.

When filthy Mævius hoists the spreading Sail,
Each luckless Omen shall prevail.
Ye Southern Winds, invert the foamy Tides,
And bang his labouring Vessel's Sides;
Let Eurus rouse the Main with blackening Roar,
Crack every Cable, every Oar.

457

May Northern Storms rise dreadful o'er the Floods,
As when they break the Mountain-Woods,
And while Orion sets in watry Light,
Let not a Star shine through the Night.
Mayst Thou no kinder Winds, O Mævius, meet,
Than the victorious Grecian Fleet,
When Pallas turn'd her Rage from ruin'd Troy,
The impious Ajax to destroy.
With Streams of Sweat the toiling Sailor glows,
Thy Face a muddy Paleness shows,
Nor shall thy vile unmanly Wailings move
The Pity of avenging Jove:
While watry Winds the bellowing Ocean shake,
I see thy luckless Vessel break,
But if thy Carcass reach the winding Shore,
And Birds the pamper'd Prey devour,
A Lamb and lustful Goat shall thank the Storm,
And I the Sacrifice perform.

459

Epode XI. To Pettius.

Since cruel Love, O Pettius, pierc'd my Heart,
How have I lost my once-lov'd Lyric Art?
Thrice have the Woods their leafy Honours mourn'd,
Since for Inachia's Beauties Horace burn'd.
How was I then (for I confess my Shame)
Of every idle Tale the laughing Theme?
Oh! that I ne'er had known the jovial Feast,
Where the deep Sigh, that rends the labouring Breast,
Where Languor, and a gentle Silence shows,
To every curious Eye, the Lover's Woes.

Pettius, how often o'er the flowing Bowl,
When the gay Liquor warm'd my opening Soul,
When Bacchus, jovial God, no more restrain'd
The modest Secret, how have I complain'd,
That wealthy Blockheads, in a Female's Eyes,
From a poor Poet's Genius bear the Prize?
But if a generous Rage my Breast should warm,
I swore—no vain Amusements e'er shall charm
My aching Wounds. Ye vagrant Winds receive
The Sighs, that sooth the Pains they should relieve;

461

Here shall my Shame of being conquer'd end,
Nor with such Rivals will I more contend.

When thus, with solemn Air, I vaunting said,
Inspir'd by thy Advice I homeward sped,
But ah! my Feet in wonted Wanderings stray,
And to no friendly Doors my Steps betray,
There I forgot my Vows, forget my Pride,
And at her Threshold lay my tortur'd Side.

Epode XIII. To a Friend.

See what horrid Tempests rise,
And contract the clouded Skies;
Snows and Showers fill the Air,
And bring down the Atmosphere.
Hark! what Tempests sweep the Floods!
How they shake the ratling Woods!

Let us, while it's in our Power,
Let us seize the fleeting Hour;
While our Cheeks are fresh and gay,
Let us drive old Age away,
Let us smooth its gather'd Brows,
Youth its Hour of Mirth allows.

Bring us down the mellow'd Wine,
Rich in Years, that equal mine;

463

Prithee talk no more of Sorrow,
To the Gods belong to-morrow,
And, perhaps, with gracious Power,
They may change the gloomy Hour.
Let the richest Essence shed
Eastern Odours on your Head,
While the soft Cyllenian Lyre
Shall your labouring Breast inspire.

To his Pupil, brave and young,
Thus the noble Centaur sung;
Matchless Mortal! though 'tis thine,
Proud to boast a Birth divine,
Yet the Banks, with cooling Waves
Which the smooth Scamander laves;
And where Simoïs with Pride
Rougher rolls his rapid Tide,
Destin'd by unerring Fate,
Shall the Sea-born Hero wait.
There the Sisters, fated Boy,
Shall thy Thread of Life destroy,
Nor shall azure Thetis more
Waft Thee to thy natal Shore;
Then let Joy and Mirth be thine,
Mirthful Songs, and joyous Wine,
And with Converse blithe and gay,
Drive all gloomy Cares away.

465

Epode XV. To Neæra.

Clear was the Night, the Face of Heaven serene,
Bright shone the Moon amidst her starry Train,
When round my Neck as curls the Tendril-Vine—
(Loose are its Curlings, if compar'd to thine)
'Twas then, insulting every heavenly Power,
That, as I dictated, You boldly swore;
While the gaunt Wolf pursues the trembling Sheep;
While fierce Orion harrows up the Deep;
While Phœbus' Locks float wanton in the Wind,
Thus shall Neæra prove, thus ever kind.

But, if with aught of Man was Horace born,
Severely shalt Thou feel his honest Scorn,
Nor shall He tamely bear the bold Delight,
With which his Rival riots out the Night,
But in his Anger seek some kinder Dame,
Warm with the Raptures of a mutual Flame,
Nor shall thy Rage, thy Grief, or angry Charms
Recall the Lover to thy faithless Arms.
And Thou, who-e'er Thou art, who joy to shine,
Proud as Thou art, in Spoils, which once were mine,
Though wide thy Land extends, and large thy Fold,
Though Rivers roll for Thee their purest Gold,

467

Though Nature's Wisdom in her Works were thine,
And Beauties of the human Face divine,
Yet soon thy Pride her wandering Love shall mourn,
While I shall laugh, exulting in my Turn.

Epode XVI. To the Romans.

In endless, civil War, th'imperial State
By her own Strength precipitates her Fate.
What neighbouring Nations, fiercely leagu'd in Arms,
What Porsena, with insolent Alarms
Threatening her Tyrant Monarch to restore;
What Spartacus, and Capua's rival Power;
What Gaul, tumultuous and devoid of Truth,
And fierce Germania, with her blue-eyed Youth;
What Hannibal, on whose accursed Head
Our Sires their deepest Imprecations shed,
In vain attempted to her awful State,
Shall we, a Blood-devoted Race, compleat?

469

Again shall savage Beasts these Hills possess?
And fell Barbarians, wanton with Success,
Scatter our City's flaming Ruins wide,
Or through her Streets in vengeful Triumph ride,
And her great Founder's hallow'd Ashes spurn,
That sleep uninjur'd in their sacred Urn?

But some, perhaps, to shun the rising Shame
(Which Heaven approve) would try some happier Scheme.
As the Phocæans oft for Freedom bled,
At length, with imprecated Curses, fled,
And left to Boars and Wolves the sacred Fane,
And all their Houshold Gods, ador'd in vain,
So let us fly, as far as Earth extends,
Or where the vagrant Wind our Voyage bends.

Shall this, or shall some better Scheme prevail?
Why do we stop to hoist the willing Sail?
But let us swear, when floating Rocks shall gain,
Rais'd from the Deep, the Surface of the Main;
When lowly Po the Mountain-Summit laves,
And Apennine shall plunge beneath the Waves;
When Nature's Monsters meet in strange Delight,
And the fell Tygress shall with Stags unite;
When the fierce Kite shall wooe the willing Dove,
And win the Wanton with adulterous Love;

471

When Herds on brindled Lions fearless gaze,
And the smooth Goat exults in briny Seas,
Then, and then only, to the tempting Gale,
To spread repentant the returning Sail.

But to cut off our Hopes; those Hopes that charm
Our Fondness home, let Us with curses arm
These high Resolves. Thus let the Brave and Wise,
Whose Souls above th'indocile Vulgar rise;
And let the Croud, who dare not hope Success,
Inglorious, these ill-omen'd Seats possess.

But Ye, whom Virtue warms, indulge no more
These female Plaints, but quit this fated Shore;
For Earth-surrounding Sea our Flight awaits,
Offering its blissful Isles, and happy Seats,
Where annual Ceres crowns th'uncultur'd Field,
And Vines unprun'd their blushing Clusters yield;
Where Olives, faithful to their Season, grow,
And Figs with Nature's deepest Purple glow.
From hollow Oaks where honey'd Streams distill,
And bounds with noisy Foot the pebbled Rill;

473

Where Goats untaught forsake the flowery Vale,
And bring their swelling Udders to the Pail;
Nor evening Bears the Sheep-fold growl around,
Nor mining Vipers heave the tainted Ground;
Nor watry Eurus deluges the Plain,
Nor Heats excessive burn the springing Grain.

Not Argo thither turn'd her armed Head;
Medea there no magic Poison spread;
No Merchants thither plow the pathless Main,
For guilty Commerce, and a Thirst of Gain;
Nor wise Ulysses, and his wandering Bands,
Vicious, though brave, e'er knew these happy Lands.
O'er the glad Flocks no foul Contagion spreads,
Nor Summer Sun his burning Influence sheds.

Pure and unmix'd the World's first Ages roll'd,
But soon as Brass had stain'd the flowing Gold,
To Iron harden'd by succeeding Crimes,
Jove for the Just preserv'd these happy Climes,
To which the Gods this pious Race invite,
And bid me, raptur'd Bard, direct their Flight.

475

Epode XVII. To Canidia.

Canidia, to thy matchless Art,
Vanquish'd I yield a suppliant Heart;
But oh! by Hell's extended Plains,
Where Pluto's gloomy Consort reigns;
By bright Diana's vengeful Rage,
Which Prayers, nor Hecatombs assuage,
And by the Books, of Power to call
The charmed Stars, and bid them fall,
No more pronounce the sacred Scrowl,
But back the magic Circle roll.

Even stern Achilles could forgive
The Mysian King, and bid Him live,
Though proud he rang'd the Ranks of Fight,
And hurl'd the Spear with daring Might.
Thus, when the murderous Hector lay
Condemn'd to Dogs, and Birds of Prey,
Yet when his royal Father kneel'd,
The fierce Achilles knew to yield,
And Troy's unhappy Matrons paid
Their Sorrows to their Hector's Shade.

477

Ulysses' Friends, in Labours try'd,
So Circe will'd, threw off their Hide,
Assum'd the human Form divine,
And drop'd the Voice and Sense of Swine.

O Thou, whom Tars, and Merchants love,
Too deep thy vengeful Rage I prove,
Reduc'd, alas! to Skin and Bone,
My Vigour fled, my Colour gone.
Thy fragrant Odours on my Head
More than the Snows of Age have shed.
Days press on Nights, and Nights on Days,
Yet never bring an Hour of Ease,
While gasping in the Pangs of Death,
I stretch my Lungs in vain for Breath.

Thy Charms have Power ('tis now confest)
To split the Head, and tear the Breast.
What would you more, all-charming Dame?
O Seas, and Earth! this scorching Flame!
Not such the Fire Alcides bore,
When the black-venom'd Shirt he wore;
Nor such the Flames, that to the Skies
From Ætna's burning Entrails rise;
And yet, Thou Shop of Poisons dire,
You glow with unrelenting Fire,

479

'Till by the rapid Heat calcin'd,
Vagrant I drive before the Wind.

How long—? What Ransom shall I pay?
Speak—I the stern Command obey.
To expiate the guilty Deed,
Say shall an hundred Bullocks bleed?
Or shall I to the lying String
Thy Fame and spotless Virtue sing?
Teach Thee, a golden Star, to rise,
And deathless walk the spangled Skies?

When Helen's Virtue was defam'd,
Her Brothers, though with Rage enflam'd,
Yet to the Bard his Eyes restor'd,
When suppliant He their Grace implor'd.

Oh! calm this Madness of my Brain,
For you can heal this raging Pain.
You never knew the Birth of Shame,
Nor by thy Hand, all-skilful Dame,
The poor Man's Ashes are upturn'd,
Though they be thrice three Days inurn'd.
Thy Bosom's bounteous and humane,
Thy Hand from Blood and Murder clean;
And with a blooming Race of Boys,
Lucina crowns thy Mother-Joys.

481

Canidia's Answer.

I'll hear no more. Thy Prayers are vain.
Not Rocks, amid the wintry Main,
Less heed the shipwreck'd Sailor's Cries,
When Neptune bids the Tempest rise.
Shall you Cotyttia's Feasts deride,
Yet safely triumph in thy Pride?
Or impious, to the Glare of Day
The sacred Joys of Love betray?
Or fill the City with my Name,
And Pontiffe-like our Rites defame?
Did I with Wealth in vain enrich,
Of potent Spells each charming Witch,
Or mix the speedy Drugs in vain?
No—through a lingering Length of Pain,
Reluctant shalt Thou drag thy Days,
While every Hour new Pangs shall raise.

Gazing on the delusive Feast,
Which charms his Eye, yet flies his Taste,
Perfidious Tantalus implores,
For Rest, for Rest, the vengeful Powers;

483

Prometheus, while the Vulture preys
Upon his Liver, longs for Ease;
And Sisiphus, with many a Groan,
Uprolls, with ceaseless Toil, his Stone,
To fix it on the top-most Hill,
In vain, for Jove's all-ruling Will
Forbids. When thus in black Despair
Down from some Castle, high in Air,
You seek an headlong Fate below,
Or try the Dagger's pointed Blow,
Or if the left-ear'd Knot you tye,
Yet Death your vain Attempts shall fly;
Then on your Shoulders will I ride,
And Earth shall shake beneath my Pride.

Could I with Life an Image warm
(Impertinent, you saw the Charm)
Or tear down Luna from her Skies,
Or bid the Dead, though burn'd, arise,
Or mix the Draught inspiring Love,
And shall my Art on Thee successless prove?

END of the Epodes.

485

THE SECULAR POEM.

The Poet to the People.

Stand off, ye Vulgar, nor profane,
With bold, unhallow'd Sounds, this festal Scene:
In Hymns, inspir'd by Truth divine,
I Priest of the melodious Nine,
To Youths and Virgins sing the mystic Strain.

487

To the Chorus of Youths and Virgins.

Phoebus taught me how to sing,
How to tune the vocal String;
Phœbus made me known to Fame,
Honour'd with a Poet's Name.

Noble Youths, and Virgins fair,
Chaste Diana's guardian Care,

489

(Goddess, whose unerring Dart
Stops the Lynx or flying Hart)
Mark the Lesbian Measures well,
Where they fall, and where they swell;
And in various Cadence sing,
As I strike the changing String.

To the God, who gilds the Skies,
Let the solemn Numbers rise;
Solemnising the Queen of Night,
And her Crescent's bending Light,
Which adown the fruitful Year
Rolls the Months in prone Career.

Soon upon her bridal Day,
Thus the joyful Maid shall say,
When the great revolving Year
Bad the festal Morn appear,
High the vocal Hymn I rais'd,
And the listening Gods were pleas'd;
All the vocal Hymn divine,
Horace, tuneful Bard, was thine.

491

First Concert. HYMN TO APOLLO.

Chorus of Youths and Virgins.

Tityos, with impious Lust inspir'd,
By chaste Latona's Beauties fir'd,
Thy Wrath, O Phœbus, try'd;
And Niobe, of Tongue profane,
Deplor'd her numerous Offspring slain,
Sad Victims of their Mother's Pride.

Achilles too, the Son of Fame,
Though sprung from Thetis, sea-born Dame,
And first of Men in Fight,
Though warring with tremendous Spear
He shook the Trojan Towers with Fear,
Yet bow'd to thy superiour Might;

The Cypress, when by Storms impell'd,
Or Pine, by biting Axes fell'd,
Low bends the towering Head;
So falling on th' ensanguin'd Plain,
By your unerring Arrow slain
His mighty Bulk the Hero spread.

493

He would not Priam's heedless Court,
Dissolv'd in Wine, and festal Sport,
With midnight Art surprise,
But bravely bold, of open Force,
Would proudly scorn Minerva's Horse,
And all its holy Cheat despise:

Then arm'd, alas! with Horrours dire,
Wide-wasting with resistless Ire,
Into the Flames had thrown
Infants, upon whose faultering Tongue
Their Words in formless Accents hung,
Even those to Light and Life unknown:

But charm'd by Beauty's Queen and Thee,
The Sire of Gods, with just Decree
Assenting, shook the Skies;
That Troy should change th'imperial Seat,
And guided by a better Fate,
Glorious in distant Realms should rise.

Oh! may the God, who could inspire
With living Sounds the Grecian Lyre;
In Xanthus' lucid Stream
Who joys to bathe his flowing Hair,
Now make the Latian Muse his Care,
And powerful guard her rising Fame.

495

Second Concert.

Chorus of Youths.
Ye Virgins, sing Diana's Praise.

Chorus of Virgins.
Ye Boys, let youthful Phœbus crown your Lays.

The Two Choirs.
Together let us raise the Voice
To Her, belov'd by Jove supreme;
Let fair Latona be the Theme,
Our tuneful Theme, his beauteous Choice.

Chorus of Youths.
Ye Virgins, sing Diana's Fame,
Who bathes delighted in the limpid Stream;
Dark Erymanthus' awful Groves,
The Woods, that Algidus o'erspread,
Or wave on Gragus' verdant Head,
Joyous th'immortal Huntress loves.

497

Chorus of Virgins.
Ye Boys, with equal Honour sing
Fair Tempe cloth'd with ever-blooming Spring;
Then hail the Delian Birth divine,
Whose Shoulders, beaming heavenly Fire,
Grac'd with his Brother's warbling Lyre,
And with the golden Quiver shine.

Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
Mov'd by the solemn Voice of Prayer,
They both shall make imperial Rome their Care,
And gracious turn the direful Woes
Of Famine and of weeping War,
From Rome, from sacred Cæsar far,
And pour them on our British Foes.

Third Concert. TO APOLLO AND DIANA.

Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
Ye radiant Glories of the Skies,
Ever-beaming God of Light,
Sweetly-shining Queen of Night,
Beneath whose Wrath the wood-born Savage dies;
Ye Powers, to whom with ceaseless Praise
A grateful World its Homage pays,

499

Let our Prayer, our Prayer be heard,
Now in this solemn Hour prefer'd,
When by the Sibyl's dread Command,
Of spotless Maids a chosen Train,
Of spotless Youths a chosen Band,
To all our guardian Gods uplift the hallow'd Strain.

Chorus of Youths.
Fair Sun, who with unchanging Beam
Rising another, and the same,
Canst from thy beamy Car unfold
The glorious Day,
Or hide it in thy setting Ray,
Of Light and Life immortal Source,
May'st Thou, in all thy radiant Course,
Nothing more great than seven-hill'd Rome behold.

Chorus of Virgins.
Goddess of the natal Hour,
Or if other Name more dear,
Propitious Power,
Can charm your Ear,
Our pregnant Matrons gracious hear:

501

Wlth lenient Hand their Pangs compose,
Heal their agonizing Throes;
Give the springing Birth to Light,
And with every genial Grace,
Prolific of an endless Race,
Oh! crown our Marriage-Laws, and bless the nuptial Rite;

Chorus of Youths and Virgins.

That when the circling Years complete
Again this awful Season bring,
Thrice with the revolving Light,
Thrice beneath the Shades of Night,
In countless Bands our youthful Choirs may sing
These festal Hymns, these pious Games repeat.

Ye Fates, from whom unerring flows
The Word of Truth; whose firm Decree
Its stated Bounds, and Order knows,
Wide-spreading through Eternity,
With guardian Care around us wait,
And with successive Glories crown the State.

503

Let Earth her various Fruitage yield,
Her living Verdure spread,
And form, amid the waving Field,
A sheafy Crown for Ceres' Head;
Fall genial Showers, and o'er our fleecy Care
May Jove indulgent breathe his purest Air.

Chorus of Youths.
Phœbus, whose kindly Beams impart
Health and Gladness to the Heart,
While in its Quiver lies thy pestilential Dart,
Thy youthful Suppliants hear;

Chorus of Virgins.
Queen of the Stars, who rul'st the Night
In horned Majesty of Light,
Bend to thy Virgins a propitious Ear.

Chorus of Youths and Virgins.

If, ye Gods, the Roman State
Was form'd by your immortal Power,
Or if, to change th'imperial Seat,
And other Deities adore,
Beneath your Guidance the Dardanian Ho
Pour'd forth their Legions on the Tuscan Coast;

505

For whom Æneas, through the Fire,
In which he saw his Troy expire,
A Passage open'd to an happier Clime,
Where they might nobler Triumphs gain,
And, to never-ending Time,
With boundless Empire reign,

Ye Gods, inform our docile Youth
With early Principles of Truth;
Ye Gods, indulge the waning Days
Of silver'd Age with placid Ease,
And grant to Rome an endless Race,
Treasures immense, and every sacred Grace.

The Prince, who owes to Beauty's Queen his Birth,
Who bids the snowy Victim's Blood
Pour forth to Day its purple Flood,
Oh! may He glorious rule the conquer'd Earth;
But yet a milder Glory show
In Mercy to the prostrate Foe.

Already the fierce Mede his Arms reveres,
Which wide extend th' imperial Sway,
And bid th' unwilling World obey;
The haughty Indian owns his Fears,
And Scythians, doubtful of their Doom,
Await the dread Resolves of Rome.

Faith, Honour, Peace, celestial Maid!
And Modesty, in ancient Guise array'd,
And Virtue (with unhallow'd Scorn
Too long neglected) now appear,
While Plenty fills her bounteous Horn,
And pours her Blessings o'er the various Year.

507

Chorus of Youths.
If the prophetic Power divine,
Fam'd for the golden Bow, and quiver'd Dart,
Who knows to charm the listening Nine,
And feeble Mortals raise with healing Art;
If He with gracious Eye survey the Towers,
Where Rome his Deity adores,
Oh! let each Æra still presage
Increase of Happiness from Age to Age;

Chorus of Virgins.
And may Diana, on these favourite Hills
Whose diffusive Presence fills
Her hallow'd Fane,
Propitious deign
Our holy Priests to hear,
And to our Youth incline her willing Ear.

509

Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
Lo! We the chosen, youthful Choir,
Taught with harmonious Voice to raise
Apollo's and Diana's Praise,
In full and certain Hope retire,
That all th' assembled Gods, and sovereign Jove
These pious Vows, these choral Hymns approve.

The END of the First Volume.