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 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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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.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
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.