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A Poetical Translation of the works of Horace

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

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Ode V. The Praises of Augustus.
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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.