University of Virginia Library

ODES OF HORACE, Relating to the Twelfth Epistle.

ODE VII. Book II.

To POMPEIUS GROSPHUS

Full oft, with Me, to Danger led!
With Me, to Life's last Limit prest!
(While Brutus was our warlike Head)
Pompeius, my First Friend, and Best!
Full oft with Whom, Time stole away,
Our Heads while Syrian Odors crown'd!
With Whom, short seem'd the Length of Day,
While copious Bowls our Labors drown'd!
Say, Friend, what Pow'r, inclin'd to spare
A free-born Soul, averts thy Doom?
Gives Thee, to breath Paternal Air?
Restores Thee, to thy Native Rome?
With Thee, Philippi's horrid Flight
I shar'd, nor well forsook my Shield;
Yet not, till Warriors, fam'd in Fight,
Or bit the Ground, or left the Field.
Me, seiz'd with Terror, Hermes bore,
Veil'd, thro' the Foe, o'er Hills of Slain;
Thee, War's strong Tide drove back from Shore,
A-new to try, her troubled Main.
Restor'd; to Jove the Rites perform,
Rites, due for Vows of Safety made!
Thy Limbs, long beaten by the Storm,
Repose beneath my Laurel Shade!
These Casks, take, destin'd to thy Use!
Pour Oil from those capacious Shells!
Drink deep of my Oblivious Juice!
My Massic ev'ry Grief dispells!
Who hastes the Myrtle Wreath to twine?
What Venus flies to crown my Guest?
Appoints the Ruler of the Wine?
And names the Master of the Feast?
I long to rage, with Rapture, Glad;
Wild, as a Thracian, o'er his Bowl!
And hold it Wisdom, to be Mad;
At Sight of Him, that fills my Soul!

ODE XVI. Book II.

To GROSPHUS.

In Storms when Clouds the Moon do hide,
And no kind Stars the Pilot guide;
Show me at Sea the Boldest there
Who does not wish for Quiet here.
For Quiet, Friend, the Soldier fights,
Bears weary Marches, sleepless Nights.
For This, feeds hard, and lodges cold;
Which can't be bought with Hills of Gold.
Since Wealth and Pow'r too weak we find,
To quell the Tumults of the Mind;
Or from the Monarch's Roofs of State,
Drive thence the Cares that round him wait.
Happy the Man, with Little blest,
Of What his Father left possest;
No base Desires corrupt his Head,
No Fears disturb him in his Bed.
What then in Life, which soon must end,
Can all our vain Designs intend?
From Shore to Shore why shou'd We run,
When None his tiresome Self can shun?
For baneful Care will still prevail,
And overtake Us under Sail.
Will dodge the Great Man's Train behind;
Out-run the Roe, out-fly the Wind.
If then thy Soul rejoice To-day,
Drive far To-morrow's Cares away;
In Laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect Good is to be found.
One Mortal feels Fate's sudden Blow;
Another's ling'ring Death comes slow;
And What of Life They take from Thee,
The Gods may give to punish Me.
Thy Portion is a wealthy Stock,
A fertile Glebe; a fruitful Flock;
Horses and Chariots for thy Ease,
Rich Robes to deck and make Thee please.
For Me, a little Cell I chuse,
Fit for my Mind, fit for my Muse;
Which soft Content does best adorn,
Shunning the Knaves and Fools I scorn.

ODE XXIX. Book I.

To ICCIUS.