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.

[dedication]

THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Mæcenas.

II.

Ode II. To Augustus.

III.

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

IV.

Ode IV. To Sestius.

Ode V. To Pyrrha.

VI.

Ode VI. To Agrippa.

VII.

Ode VII. To Munatius Plancus.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Lydia.

IX.

Ode IX. To Thaliarchus.

Ode X. Hymn to Mercury.

XI.

Ode XI. To Leuconoe.

XII.

Ode XII. Hymn to Jove.

XIII.

Ode XIII. To Lydia.

XIV.

Ode XIV. To the Republic.

XV.

Ode XV. The Prophecy of Nereus.

XVI.

Ode XVI. To Tyndaris.

XVII.

Ode XVII. To Tyndaris.

XVIII.

Ode XVIII. To Varus.

XIX.

Ode XIX. On Glycera.

XX.

Ode XX. To Mæcenas.

XXII.

Ode XXII. To Aristius Fuscus.

XXIII.

Ode XXIII. To Chloe.

XXIV.

Ode XXIV. To Virgil.

XXV.

Ode XXV. To Lydia.

XXVI.

Ode XXVI. To his Muse.

XXVII.

Ode XXVII. To his Companions.

XXVIII.

Ode XXVIII. A Mariner and the Ghost of Archytas.

XXIX.

Ode XXIX. To Iccius.

XXX.

Ode XXX. To Venus.

XXXI.

Ode XXXI. To Apollo.

XXXII.

Ode XXXII. To his Lyre.

XXXIII.

Ode XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

XXXIV.

Ode XXXIV.

XXXV.

Ode XXXV. To Fortune.

XXXVI.

Ode XXXVI.

XXXVII.

Ode XXXVII. To his Companions.

XXXVIII.

Ode XXXVIII. To his Slave.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Asinius Pollio.

II.

Ode II. To Crispus Sallustius.

III.

Ode III. To Dellius.

IV.

Ode IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

Ode V.

VI.

Ode VI. To Septimius.

VII.

Ode VII. To Pompeius Varus.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Barine.

IX.

Ode IX. To Valgius.

Ode X. To Licinius Murena.

XI.

Ode XI. To Quintius Hirpinus.

XII.

Ode XII. To Mæcenas.

XIII.

Ode XIII.

XIV.

Ode XIV. To Postumus.

XV.

Ode XV.

XVI.

Ode XVI. To Pompeius Grosphus.

XVII.

Ode XVII. To Mæcenas.

XVIII.

Ode XVIII.

XIX.

Ode XIX. To Bacchus.

XX.

Ode XX. To Mæcenas.

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I.

II.

Ode II. To his Friends.

III.

Ode III.

IV.

Ode IV. To Calliope.

Ode V. The Praises of Augustus.

VI.

Ode VI. To the Romans.

VII.

Ode VII. To Asterie.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Mæcenas.

IX.

Ode IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.

Ode X. To Lyce.

XI.

Ode XI. To Mercury.

XII.

Ode XII. To Neobule.

XIII.

Ode XIII. To the Fountain Bandusia.

XIV.

Ode XIV. On the Return of Augustus from Spain.

XV.

Ode XV. To Chloris.

XVI.

Ode XVI. To Mæcenas.

XVII.

Ode XVII. To Ælius Lamia.

XVIII.

Ode XVIII. To Faunus.

XIX.

Ode XIX. To Telephus.

XX.

Ode XX. To Pyrrhus.

XXI.

Ode XXI. To his Cask.

XXII.

Ode XXII. To Diana.

XXIII.

Ode XXIII. To Phidyle.

XXIV.

Ode XXIV. Against Misers.

XXV.

Ode XXV. To Bacchus.

XXVI.

Ode XXVI. To Venus.

XXVII.

Ode XXVII. To Galatea.

XXVIII.

Ode XXVIII. To Lyde.

XXIX.

Ode XXIX. To Mæcenas.

XXX.

Ode XXX. To Melpomene.

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES of HORACE.

Ode I. To Venus.

II.

Ode II. To Antonius Julus.

III.

Ode III. To Melpomene.

IV.

Ode IV. The Praises of Drusus.

Ode V. To Augustus.

VII.

Ode VII. To Torquatus.

VIII.

Ode VIII. To Censorinus.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

Ode XIV. To Augustus.

XV.

Ode XV. To Augustus.

THE BOOK OF THE EPODES of HORACE.

Epode I. To Mæcenas.

II.

Epode II. The Praises of a Country-Life.

III.

Epode III. To Mæcenas.

IV.

Epode IV.

Epode V: On the Witch Canidia.

VI.

Epode VI. To Cassius Severus.

VII.

Epode VII. To the Roman People.

IX.

Epode IX. To Mæcenas.

Epode X. To Mævius.

XI.

Epode XI. To Pettius.

XIII.

Epode XIII. To a Friend.

XV.

Epode XV. To Neæra.

XVI.

Epode XVI. To the Romans.

XVII.

Epode XVII. To Canidia.

Canidia's Answer.

THE SECULAR POEM.

The Poet to the People.

To the Chorus of Youths and Virgins.

First Concert. HYMN TO APOLLO.

Second Concert.

Third Concert. TO APOLLO AND DIANA.

II.

VOL. II.

THE SATIRES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE SATIRES of HORACE.

Sat. I. Horace. Trebatius.

II.

Sat. II.

III.

Sat. III. Damasippus. Horace.

VI.

Sat. VI. Horace. Catius.

Sat. V. Ulysses. Tiresias.

VI.

Sat. VI.

VII.

Sat. VII. Davus. Horace.

VIII.

Sat. VIII. Horace. Fundanius.

THE EPISTLES OF HORACE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

Epistle I. To Mæcenas.

II.

Epist. II. To Lollius.

III.

Epist. III. To Julius Florus.

IV.

Epist. IV. To Albius Tibullus.

Epist. V. To Torquatus.

VI.

Epist. VI. To Numicius.

VII.

Epist. VII. To Mæcenas.

VIII.

Epist. VIII. To Celsus Albinovanus.

IX.

Epist. IX. To Tiberius Nero.

Epist. X. To Aristius Fuscus.

XI.

Epist. XI. To Bullatius.

XII.

Epist. XII. To Iccius.

XIII.

Epist. XIII. To Vinius Asella.

XIV.

Epist. XIV. To His Steward in the Country.

XV.

Epist. XV. To Vala.

XVI.

Epist. XVI. To Quintius.

XVII.

Epist. XVII. To Scæva.

XVIII.

Epist. XVIII. To Lollius.

XIX.

Epist. XIX. To Mæcenas.

XX.

Epist. XX. To His Book.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE EPISTLES of HORACE.

Epist. I. To Augustus.

II.

Epist. II. To Julius Florus.

HORACE's ART of POETRY.

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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.

227

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.

229

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.

231

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;

233

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,

235

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.

237

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.

239

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,

241

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;

243

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.

245

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.

147

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.

249

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.

251

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.

253

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.

255

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.

327

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.

329

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

337

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.