The odes, epodes and Carmen Seculare of Horace (1719)

Oldisworth, William (1680-1734)

THE ODES OF HORACE.

II.

III.

IV.

THE EPODES OF HORACE.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE ODES OF HORACE.

BOOK I.

ODE I. To Mæcenas.

Mæcenas , born of Royal Blood,
My noblest Patron, sweetest Good!
There are who all their Pleasure place
In Chariots, and the rapid Race,
Who in Olympick Plains contend,
And joy to see the Dust ascend.
These, when they win the Field and Prize,
Grow into Gods, and reach the Skies.
Another courts the People's Voice,
And doats on Offices and Noise:
The Farmer from the Libyan Plains
Gathers the Product of his Pains:
No Promises of Wealth prevail
To make him hoist a doubtful Sail,
To trust the Winds, and try the Flood,
And leave the Fields his Father plow'd.

The Merchant, when by Storms beset,
Commends a Country Life and Seat:
But when the sudden Danger's o'er,
Refits his Bark, and tries once more,
And hates the Crime of being poor.
The Toper underneath the Shade,
Or near some Spring supinely laid,
There all the Evening cheers his Soul,
And crowns with Massic Wine the Bowl.
The Soldier loves to shine in Arms,
And hear the Trumpets shrill Alarms,
That bid him to the Camp repair,
The Hero's Sport and Matron's Fear.
Unmindful of his tender Spouse,
The Hunter roves through Frosts and Snows
He spreads his Toils, his Dogs pursue
The flying Boar, and Stag in view.

For me, a Poet's sacred Name,
And Ivy Crown, is all I claim;
In Pindus' breezy Shades I stray,
Where Nymphs and Satyrs dance and play;
Then all the Vulgar I despise,
And to immortal Glory rise,
If the indulgent Muses deign
To let me sing in Lyric Strain,
The Hero's Praise and Lover's Pain.
Rank me amidst that Sacred Quire,
Nor Men nor Gods can lift me higher.

ODE II. To Augustus.

I

Sure 'tis enough! give o'er, dread Sire!
To show'r thy stormy Hailstones down,
To smite the Capitol with Fire,
And rock with Thunderbolts the frighted Town.

II

Compass'd with Prodigies, we fear'd
That Pyrrha's Watry Age was near,
When Proteus drove his scaly Herd
Up to the Hills and dispossess'd the Deer:

III

When Fishes plaid among the Boughs,
And chac'd the fluttering Birds away:
When Doves took Wing, and frighted Does
Swam thro' the Woods and wander'd in the Sea.

IV

We saw, when o'er Etruria's Plain
Great Tiber from his Chanel stray'd,
Prophanely wasting Vesta's Fane,
And Monuments of Kings in Ruins laid;

V

Full of Revenge and fond Desire,
For Ilia's sake, he rais'd his Flood:
Whilst to the Left his Waves aspire,
Tho' Jove himself forbad th' uxorious God.

VI

Our Youth shall hear the sound of Arms,
To gall the Parthian Foe decreed;
Shall rouze to War and fresh Alarms,
And for Paternal Crimes our Children bleed.

VII

To what propitious Shrine or Pow'r
Shall the declining State repair?
How shall the Vestal Maids implore
Their angry Goddess with incessant Pray'r?

VIII

What Victim will great Jove admit,
T' avert a guilty Nation's Doom?
O Phœbus! vail thy Beams of Light,
And clad in Clouds, to our Assistance come.

IX

Or thou, fair Venus! bring thy Train
Of Loves and Smiles and Am'rous Mirth:
Or thou, great Mars, revive again
Thy long forgotten Sons, and Fav'rite Earth.

X

Let Streams of Blood and tedious War
Allay thy Thirst, thy Rage appease;
Tho' only Arms, the Sword and Spear,
And Troops in close Array thy Godhead please.

XI

Or dost thou, gentle Maia's Son!
With ready Help protect the Good?
Hast thou dissembled Youth put on,
Deigning to purge the Earth from Cæsar's Blood?

XII

Long may the Age enjoy thy Stay,
O Great Augustus! and no Crimes
Urge thy Return, or wing thy Way
Back to the Gods, and thy own Heav'n, betimes.

XIII

Long may'st thou here on Earth maintain
The Names of Father, Good, and Great,
Make the World happy in thy Reign,
And from invading Foes secure the State.

ODE III.

So may bright Venus glitter o'er the Deep,
And the fair Twins with double Lustre shine.
Whilst all the Winds within their Caverns sleep,
But only those which favour thy Design;

If thou, dear Ship! from Storms and Wracks defend,
And, as I wish and pray, betimes restore
Virgil, my better Half, my nearest Friend,
And land him safe on Athens longing Shore.

Hard was his Heart, inclos'd in Folds of Brass,
Who in a feeble Bark first boldly try'd
The Watry Path and Region of the Seas,
And adverse Winds and swelling Waves defy'd.

No raging Storms could shock his mighty Soul,
Nor craggy Rocks by forked Lightning split,
Though Northern Blasts along the Ocean howl,
To which the Adriatick Waves submit.

Death in no Form could ever move his Fear,
Who calmly with attentive Mind and Eyes
The Horrors of the Deep unmov'd could bear,
And view the Monsters of the low Abyss.

The Earth by Jove was parted from the Main,
Who gave each Element its proper place:
But haughty Man obstructs what Gods ordain,
Since impious Ships the sacred Bounds o'erpass.

No Pow'rs the Pride of Mortals can controul,
Prone to new Crimes, by strong Presumption driv'n;
With sacrilegious Hands Prometheus stole
Cœlestial Fire, and bore it down from Heav'n.

That fatal Present brought on Mortal Race
An Army of Diseases: Death began
With Vigour then to mend his halting Pace,
And found a more compendious Way to Man.

With Human Wings, not form'd by Nature's Aid,
Whose noblest Works vain Art would oft excel,
Wise Dædalus the starry Realms survey'd,
Whilst great Alcides forc'd the Gates of Hell.

Nothing's so high, but what Mankind will dare,
Push to excess of Ill, and Crimes unknown:
Scarce will our Pride the Gods themselves forbear,
Or suffer Jove to lay his Thunder down.

ODE IV. To Sestius.

The Winter melts away, the Spring takes place:
Warm Winds the Icy Streams release,
And Ships re-visit the neglected Seas.

The Cattel range afar, from Stalls let loose.
No more the Hearth with Ashes glows,
And snowy Meads their hoary Fleeces lose.

Venus in Pairs now calls again
Her Nymphs and Graces, lovely Train,
To dance by Moon-shine on the verdant Plain;

There hand in hand they ply their nimble Feet:
Whilst Vulcan and his Cyclops sweat,
And with loud Stroaks their massy Anvils beat.

Now is the proper time to deck the Head,
And Myrtle round the Temple spread,
Or Flow'rs new springing from the Frosty Bed.

Now is the time, the Swains have so decreed,
A bleating Lamb or tender Kid
To Faunus in the sacred Grove must bleed.

Intruding Death with equal Freedom greets
The low built Hutt, and stately Gates
Of lofty Palaces and Royal Seats.

Be wise, O Sestius! to prolong forbear,
Since Life is short, thy Hopes and Care:
The Fabled Shades and gloomy State draw near.

Thou must e'er long, without Redemption, go
To Pluto's dusky Realm below:
Thy Revels and thy drunken Joys forgoe.

Then Lycidas no longer shall be thine,
Whole Charms our Sex at present win,
For whom a thousand Virgins soon shall pine.

ODE V. To Pyrrha.

What well-shap'd Lover in the Rosie Shade,
With fragrant Limbs and sweet Address,
Shall to thy warm Embraces press,
In all thy loose Attire and wanton Airs display'd?

Bright Charmer, nicely clean tho' Plain!
How shall the Youth with sad Surprise,
See angry Storms and Tempests rise,
And all this Calm of Love break into fierce Disdain?

He doats, he raves with Bliss, whilst thou art kind;
Ah Wretch! undone by Am'rous Smiles,
Who sees thy Charms and not thy Wiles;
For thou art light as Air, inconstant as the Wind.

Learn from my Fate; by Tides and Whirlwinds tost,
I reach'd the Shore, half-drown'd in Brine;
My Tablet hangs on Neptune's Shrine,
To warn all other Sailors from the dangerous Coast.

ODE VI. To Agrippa.

Varius in never-dying Verse,
Equal to Homer's Vein,
Thy Deeds Agrippa, shall rehearse:
Thy Triumphs on the Land and Main.

Whilst I no warlike Subject chuse,
Too lofty for the Lyre:
Nor tell of Pelop's bloody House,
Ulysses' Toils, Achilles' Ire.

How should I raise my flagging Wing
Above the middle Skies,
Of Heroes or of Gods to sing?
Or how to Thee or Cæsar rise?

Who can Mars in Armour dress?
Who Merion's dusty Stains?
Who mighty Diomed express,
Meeting the Gods on Trojan Plains?

Let me describe, in humble Strains,
The Feats that Love has done,
The Battels, Revels, Joys and Pains,
Th' Amours of others and my own.

ODE VII. To Munatius Plancus.

Whilst some praise Corinth, Ephesus, or Rhodes,
Or Mitylene, or Thessalia's Plains,
Or Thebes, or Delphos, both the Seats of Gods,
For Bacchus there, and here Apollo reigns;

By others rich Mycene is preferr'd,
Or Argian Tow'rs, that veil'd to Juno's Sway,
Or those where Pallas rules, and every Bard
Bears his own Native Olive Crown away;

Not Sparta hits so much my Humour's Bent,
Nor fair Larissa in her proudest Dress,
As Anio rowling from his high Descent,
Or sweet Albunea's shady calm Recess.

Here Echo in the Walks repeats my Song:
Or when Tiburnus' gloomy Shades I trace,
The Streams in Murmurs gently glide along,
And greet the fragrant Orchats as they pass.

O Plancus, let the juicy Grape allay
The Toils of Life, and deep corroding Cares,
Whether in Tibur's pleasant Woods you stray,
Or in bright Armour follow Camps and Wars.

Sometimes the boist'rous South it self grows mild,
Forgets to rage in Blasts, and Storms, and Rain,
Clears the black Air, with Clouds and Horror fill'd,
Dispels the Gloom, and brings back Day again.

When Teucer from his Native Countrey fled,
To ease his Grief the sparkling Bowl he took:
Amidst the Feast, with Poplar crown'd his Head,
And thus his faithful drinking Friends bespoke.

We follow Fortune, Fortune is our Guide:
Let none despair, whilst Teucer leads you on;
Phœbus another Countrey will provide,
A second Salamis shall rise our own.

Courage, my Mates, in Dangers try'd before:
In generous Wine your Cares and Sorrows steep;
To Day be merry and carouse ashore,
To Morrow launch once more into the Deep.

ODE VIII. To Lydia.

Will you persist, fair Lydia! to love on,
On Sybaris exhaust your Charms?
Now by the Gods, he's ruin'd and undone:
For Fame no more his Courage warms;
He hates the dusty Field and scorching Sun,
Though once so well approv'd for Feats of Arms.

No more his Arms the manag'd Steed restrain,
Nor stem with nervous Strokes the Flood;
Suppled with Oil no more his Limbs sustain
The massy Armour's weighty Load:
His Hands the Jav'lin and the Quoit disdain,
Which none so far with manly Vigour throw'd.

He's spoil'd, he's lost to Glory and Renown,
Unmann'd, and made a Woman's Toy:
So Thetis heretofore disguis'd her Son;
Least the rough Habit of a Boy
Should call him forth, and urge the Hero on
Eager for War and Blood, and push the Fate of Troy.

ODE IX. To Thaliarchus.

See how Soracte's Mountain scarce sustains
Her hoary Load! what Frosts congeal the Woods,
Bind fast the waving Seas in Icy Chains,
And stop the rapid Current of the Floods!

Now let your Hearth with Piles of Billets glow,
The Sabine Casks their mellow Charge diffuse:
Dissolve the crystal Ice, melt down the Snow
With never-ceasing Fires and sparkling Juice.

Leave all the rest to Jove, at whose Command
The warring Winds their rough Contentions end,
No more the Waves in curling Ridges stand,
Nor Ash, nor Cypress to the Tempest bend.

Nought Future, no To-morrows Thee employ,
The present Hour is thine, and this improve,
Now in the Youth the Gift of Heaven enjoy,
In sportive Dance, in Revels, and in Love.

Remove far off Old-age and late Decay;
Now to the Walks and to the Ring repair:

At Night the lucky Moment calls away,
The gentle Whisper, and the yielding Fair.

In vain she flies to hide, but laughing shows
How you may find her out, and hold her fast:
And when you snatch some Favour, clasp it close,
Struggles a-while, but—lets it go at last.

ODE X. To Mercury.

Great God of Wit, from Atlas sprung,
For Eloquence renown'd;
The Musick of whose charming Tongue
Refin'd Mankind, and Science found;

Of Thee upon the Lyre I sing:
To Thee the Lyre owes its Birth,
Ambassador of Heav'n's great King,
Admir'd for Witty Thefts on Earth.

For his stol'n Cows Thee Maia's Son
With Threats attackt a Child;
But when he found his Quiver gone,
Pleas'd with the Cheat Apollo smil'd.

Old Priam, by thy Conduct led
To great Achilles' Tent,
Unseen unhurt to Ilium fled.
Through Grecian Fires and Guards he went.

Thou sway'st the Regions of the Blest,
The Ghosts thy Scepter know,
A Favourite by all confess't
The Gods above, and those below.

ODE XI. To Leuconoe.

Seek not to know, what fated End
The Gods for you or me intend,
Nor lend to Magick Arts an Ear,
But still against the worst prepare.
With Unconcern let Life glide on:
'Tis full of Toil, and quickly done.
See, Winter rages on the Sea,
And 'tis perhaps the Last you'll see.
Be wise, enjoy the present Hour:
Brisk Wine from smiling Goblets pour:
Improve the Moments whilst they last,
And snatch the Hours that fly so fast;
To Day, let Hope prevent Despair,
To Morrow is not worth your Care.

ODE XII. To Augustus.

What Man? What Hero wilt thou claim?
What God-head, Muse? For whom inspire
Thy warbling Pipe or Lyre,
While sportful Echo sounds thy dancing Name?

Whether in Pindus' Shades I rove,
Or near the Muses sacred Spring,
Or on cold Hæmus sing,
Whence tuneful Orpheus drew the list'ning Grove.

He knew to charm, or Earth, or Sky;
Soon as his Mother's Harp he strung,
The Trees with Ears were hung,
The Streams forgot to flow, the Winds to fly.

What nobler Theme than he, who steers
The World, obedient to his Sway,
Whom Gods and Men obey:
Who guides the Earth, and Sea, and fleeting Years?

He claims the first and highest Place:
Nothing so great, so wise, above,
NoneSecond is to Jove.
But Pallas next to him deserves our Praise.

I'll Bacchus' Fights exalt on high,
And fierce Diana's Sylvan Arts,
And great Apollo's Darts,
That from the fatal Bow unerring fly.

I'll sing Alcides and the Twins,
Renown'd on Horse-back or on Foot;
To push the Martial Rout:
Whose Star propitious to the Sailor shines;

The Clouds disperse when they arise,
The warring Winds are hush'd asleep,
Serenely smiles the Deep,
And smooth the Surface of old Ocean lyes.

Shall I hehearse wise Numa's State,
Or Romulus th' immortal Man:
Or Tarquin's haughty Reign
And pompous Life, or Cato's nobler Fate?

The Scauri lavish of their Blood,
Or brave Fabricius fond of Fame
Or Regulus, bright Name!
Or Paulus, ever glorious, though subdu'd?

A homely Cott and private State
Produc'd Camillus, fam'd in War,
In Rules of Life severe,
And Curius, in his manly Roughness great.

Marcellus, like a Tree, aspires
To Glory, free from Noise and Care:
Whilst the gay Julian Star,
Like the round Moon, out-shines the lesser Fires.

Lord of Mankind! the World's wide Sway,
And Cæsar's Life, are in thy Pow'r:
The Fates could give no more;
O truly great, whom Cæsar must obey!

Let Cæsar tame the distant East,
And chace with just vindictive Arms
Terror and dread Alarms,
When Parthian Foes the Roman Coasts infest.

Cæsar and Jove shall rule the World;
Jove on Olympus rides confest,
In Pow'r and Glory drest,
Whilst at polluted Groves his angry Bolts are hurl'd,

ODE XIII. To Lydia.

While Telephus's blooming Charms
My Lydia praises to the Skie,
His rosie Neck, and waxen Arms,
With Spleen I burst, with Passion die.

'Tis then I rave, look pale, and pine:
Then gentle Tears exhaling prove
The secret Fire that lurks within,
The secret wasting Fires of Love.

With Jealousie I rave and burn,
To see you show your livid Scars:
Your Lips with biting Kisses torn,
In Revels and nocturnal Wars.

Believe me, Lydia, charming Maid,
You'll never find those Lovers true,
Who could your balmy Lips invade,
Where Love distills his sweetest Dew.

Thrice happy they, whose Hearts are ty'd
In Love's mysterious Knot so close,
No Strife, no Quarrels e'er divide,
And only Death fell Death can loose.

ODE XIV.

Ill fated Ship! to quit the Shores,
And launch into the Main,
On a new Voyage, without Oars,
Thence never to return again!

The Winds have rent your Yard and Mast:
Your Sail and Tackle's gone;
A stormy Sea or sudden Blast
Will soon your foundring Keel o'erturn.

No more the Gods will calm the Floods;
Tho' thy Descent lay Claim
To ancient venerable Woods,
A boasted Birth, and useless Name.

The painted Forms that grace the Stern,
Can't ease the Sailors Minds;
Take heed, lest you too in your Turn
Give new Diversion to the Winds;

For you I wish, for you I fear,
Inur'd to endless Toils:
Those Shelves and narrow Straights beware,
That lye between the Grecian Isles.

ODE XV.

When Paris through the briny Tide
Convey'd the Spartan Bride,
The Winds were husht, the Sea was laid,
Whilst Nereus in prophetick Strains his future Doom display'd.

Unhappy Youth in such a Spouse,
Whom Greece in Arms pursues,
Sworn to regain the fatal Prey,
And interrupt thy Joys and Priam's ancient Sway!

The final Fate of Troy draws near;
How raging is the War!
What Troops, what Hurry, what Alarms!
Pallas assumes her Rage, her Chariot and her Arms.

In Venus and your well-comb'd Hair
Is all your Hope and Care,
Or on the tuneful Lyre to play,
And softest, sweetest Sounds to Virgins Ears convey.

In rich Alcoves you sport and laugh,
From Spears and Arrows safe:
There mighty Ajax cannot wound;
But soon your fragrant Hair shall sweep the dusty Ground.

Think on Ulysses sage and bold,
And Nestor wise though old;
Teucer and Sthenelus prepare
To shake your Town with Arms, your trembling Heart with Fear.

In Horses and in Chariots skill'd
They range the bloody Field;
Merion too shall give you Chase,
And Diomed the bravest stoutest of his Race.

He shall pursue and threaten Death:
You tir'd and out of Breath,
Shall pant and heave along the Shores,
As from the brinded Wolf the frighted Lambkin scours.

Achilles shall defer the Date
Of your untimely Fate:
But e'er ten rolling Years expire,
The lofty Walls of Troy shall blaze with Grecian Fire.

ODE XVI. To his Mistress.

Do with my Satyrs as you please,
O fairest of your Name!
Or drown them in the Rapid Seas,
Or set them on a Flame.

Passion's a Madness in the Breast,
No God can blow it higher,
When Bacchanals or Priests possess'd,
The Frantick Pow'rs inspire.

Passion through Fire and Sword runs on;
Can Storms and Tempest stand,
Though mighty Jove himself rush down,
With Thunder in his Hand.

Prometheus from the Lyon's Heart
Took this bright Eager Ray,
And made it of Mankind a Part,
And wrapt it in our Clay.

By Passion great Thyestes fell,
The Cause of all his Woe;
It brings tall Turrets down to Hell,
And lays proud Cities low.

Then prithee cease to Pout and Fret,
The horrid Crime I own:
When you suppress'd my Am'rous Heat,
It broke into Lampoon.

Then I was Mad, but now I'll try,
To make my Dear amends;
Away with all this Pish and Fie.
Let's Kiss, and so be Friends.

ODE XVII. To Tyndaris.

Faunus from fair Arcadia's Shore
Visits my homely Sylvan Seat:
He saves my Flocks, with Guardian Pow'r,
From pinching Cold and scorching Heat.

My Herds secure their Rambles take,
On Thyme and fragrant Herbs they browze,
Nor fear the angry hissing Snake,
Or Rav'ning Wolves, their mortal Foes.

Here, Fair one, you may safely stray,
Whilst the gay Plains their Sweets exhale,
And on your Pipe soft Sonnets play,
That Echo from the hollow Vale.

Their Poet to the Gods is dear,
My Piety and Muse they love,
Hence Plenty crowns my yellow Year,
And Blessings flow in Streams from Jove.

Here to some Valley you'll retire,
And sing the Hero and the Dame,
Inchanting Circe's guilty Fire,
Or Fair Penelope's chast Flame.

Here you may take a chearful Glass
Of harmless Wine, beneath the Shade;
Your Hours in sweet Retirement pass,
Of no rude drunken Sot afraid.

No Jealous Lover here shall dare,
With impious Hands, your Charms to press,
Nor pull the Garland from your Hair,
Nor spoil the Beauty of your Dress.

ODE XVIII. To Quintilius Varus.

On Tibur's Shore new Vineyards plant,
For 'tis the only Tree we want;
The Gods ne'er made a nobler Tree!
The Gods love drunken Souls like me.
They have a thousand Plagues in store
For sober Sots, whom Cares devour.
At Sight of Bacchus, Sorrows fly,
Spleen vanishes, and Vapours die.
Who in his Cups e'er made Complaint
Of pinching Penury and Want?
Or durst recite in rueful Strain
The Toils he bore the last Campaign?
When sparkling Bowls our Hours improve:
Then all our Talk is Wine and Love.
But still the Centaurs bloody War
Bids us of Strife and Blows take Care;
We know what Bacchus did in Thrace,
Nor will too far indulge the Glass.
Let Reason still keep in its Light,
And still distinguish Wrong from Right.
God of the Grape, I'll wisely use
Thy heav'nly Gifts, nor will disclose
Thy sacred Rites; do thou asswage
My burning Soul, and curb thy Rage:

Lest to new hateful Crimes I run:
Lest Vanity seize Reason's Throne,
And wretched I to open Day
The Secrets of the Night betray,
And my Heart transparent grow,
Clear as the Glass, that makes it so.

ODE XIX.

The wanton Queen of loose Desires
My Soul with Love re-kindled burns:
Bacchus foments the raging Fires,
And all the Libertine returns.

Fair Glycera, divinely bright,
With brilliant Eyes inflames my Heart,
Her Cheeks diffusing beamy Light,
Her wanton Airs, and winning Art.

Venus within my Bosom reigns,
Forsaking her lov'd Cyprian Grove:
She bids me cease my warlike Strains,
And sing no other God but Love.

With verdant Turf adorn the Shrine,
With fragrant Herbs her Altars bind:
Pour forth the choicest, richest Wine,
To make the Nymph and Goddess kind.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

Once, Dear Mæcenas! with your Friend
To common Sabine Wine descend;
'Twas cask'd that Day, Rome's Joy was heard
In loud Applause, when you appear'd.

The Vatican, and Tiber's Stream,
(Tiber from your Etruria came)
Did with your wafted Praise resound,
And Echo wanton'd with the Sound.

I know, your foaming Bowls run o'er
With all Campania's richest Store,
But my poor earthen Cups produce
No such luxurious costly Juice.

ODE XXI.

Sing, ye Nymphs, Diana's Praise,
Praise, ye Youths, Apollo's Name;
Fair Latona's Beauty raise,
That did the Thunderer inflame.

Sing the Goddess, who delights
In tall Woods and shady Groves,
Trips it on Arcadia's Heights,
And cooling Erymanthus loves.

Lovely Tempe claims your Song:
Delos is Apollo's Isle;
He the Vocal Lyre first strung,
He loves the Bow and Sylvan Toil.

You shall pay your daily Vows,
He shall make the State his Care;
Far from Rome upon our Foes
He pours out Famine, Plagues and War.

ODE XXII. To Aristius.

The Man with Virtue's Aid prepar'd,
In Virtue finds the surest Guard;
He needs nor Bows, nor Darts defence,
Safe in his spotless Innocence.

The virtuous Man securely stands
On Scythian Snows, or Libyan Sands;
Or to the farthest Indies goes,
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes flows.

For, as by Am'rous Thoughts betray'd,
Among the Woods I lately stray'd,
I met a Wolf; the Salvage knew
Unarm'd Integrity and flew.

Not warlike Daunia's Savage Coast
Could such a well-grown Monster boast:
No Beast so large infests the Plains
Where Lions breed, and Juba reigns.

Me to the Northern Pole convey,
Remote from Summer's cheerful Ray;
Where endless Frosts and Snows appear,
And Clouds and Cold bring round the Year:

Or place me near the burning Zone,
To fry beneath the scorching Sun;
Love and the Nymph shall ease my Toils,
Who softly Speaks, and sweetly Smiles.

ODE XXIII. To Chloe.

You shun me, Chloe, as a Fawn
To seek her Dam affrighted flies
Through every Mountain, Wood and Lawn,
And trembles at each rushing Breeze.

Her Breath alternate comes and goes,
If but a Lizard stir the Leaves:
And if the Zephyrs fan the Bows,
She starts and quivers, pants and heaves.

I follow not as Lions chace
Their fleeting Prey along the Plains:
Then leave your Mother's cold Embrace,
Since you are grown mature for Man's.

ODE XXIV. To Virgil.

The mournful Muse, the Voice and Lyre
To weep Quintilian's Death conspire;
Such was his Worth, our Loss is such,
We cannot Love too well, or Grieve too much.

And does then Death's eternal Chain
Quintilian, best of Men, detain?
Ah! when will Faith and Justice find
So true, so great, and so sincere a Mind?

The Good, like him, lament his Fall,
But thou, great Virgil, more than all;
Thy pious Wishes were in vain,
The Gods were deaf, Quintilian was a Man.

Could you, like vocal Orpheus, move
The dancing Trees and list'ning Grove,
Your Epick Art, your winning Strains
Could never raise his Lifeless cold remains.

He's with the Shades, the nimble God
Has touch'd him with his fatal Rod;
'Tis hard: but Patience will give Ease
In all those Ills which Prudence can't redress.

ODE XXV. To Lydia.

No Scourers now your Walks infest,
In rusty Silence mourns your Gate;
No Serenades disturb your Rest,
Or Rakes beneath your Windows wait.

Your Lovers from your Lodgings fly:
No more you hear the Mid-night Song:
Ah, can you Sleep, and let me Die,
Die with Cold thus all Night long?

In hopes of Cullies you may haunt
The Streets and Allies, wet and dry,
And only hear the Laughers taunt
And rally, as they pass you by;

Whilst all the Rage of hot Desire,
With which the madding Mares are stung,
Sets every batter'd Limb on Fire,
And Spleen with Satyr arms your Tongue:

Then how you curse the young and gay!
For only those the Fellows mind,
But send what's stale and in decay
To Lapland, with the first fair Wind.

ODE XXVI. To his Muse.

I doat on Poetry and Mirth;
Let Sorrow in the Ocean drown:
What is't to me who Rules the North?
Or if rude Cares surround a Throne?

O lovely Muse! O darling Maid!
Take all the fragrant Flow'rs that grow
Around the Springs, or in the Shade,
And weave a Crown for Lamia's Brow.

You, Goddess, all my Fame bestow;
Prepare your Harps, your Pipes, your Layes:
For all the Nine to Lamia owe
The sweetest Songs and highest Praise.

ODE XXVII.

With Cups for gentler Sports design'd
Let Salvages engage,
Our Bacchus is to Peace inclin'd,
And not to brutish Rage.

Who can rough Arms, and Battels bear,
With Wine, and drinking Joys?
Then let each Toper keep his Chair,
And cease this horrid Noise.

If you would have me take my Glass,
Let yonder Youth impart
His present Pains, and name the Lass
That now inflames his Heart.

If he denies me my Request,
This Moment I am gone:
Whatever Nymph disturbs his Rest,
He need not blush to own.

Come tell it softly in my Ear:
The Secret's safe with me.—
Alas, then do you doat on her?
How wretched must you be!

No winged Force, no heav'nly Pow'r,
No God nor Magick Art,
When such a Monster would devour,
Can save your bleeding Heart.

ODE XXVIII.

Close by the Shore a Span of Earth contains,
O mighty Man of Art! thy last thy great Remains;
Whose penetrating Mind and skilful Hands
Measur'd the Heav'ns and Earth, and number'd all the Sands.

Vain is thy Learning now: Thy active Soul
No more shall trace the Stars, or travel to the Pole.
Repine not: Tantalus is gone before,
Who boasted of the Gods his Guests, and many Heroes more.

Tithonus is a Ghost, long since forgot!
And Minos, whom the Gods their secret Councils taught.
Pythagoras, in Nature deeply skill'd,
Though in the Trojan War he wore a massy Shield,

And only then his Flesh and Figure lost,
Is sent a second time to Pluto's gloomy Coast.
The Race of Mortals must to Death submit,
And tread the darksom Paths of everlasting Night.

Some in the Field with mangling Wounds are slain;
And others buried low in the devouring Main.
No human Arts the cruel Fates beguile,
But Old and Young in heaps crowd to the mournful Pile.

By luckless Stars and raging Tempests toss'd,
On the Illyrian Shore untimely I was lost.
O courteous Sailor! see me gently laid,
And heap the rolling Sands on my devoted Head;

So may thy Vessel scape the Storms and Floods,
And ev'ry Tempest spend its Fury on the Woods:
So may great Jove and Neptune crown thy Pains
With due Returns of Wealth, and never-ceasing Gains.

If you reject my Pray'r, in future Times
Your wretched Heir shall mourn for old Paternal Crimes;
You too when dead may suffer in your turn,
Expos'd upon the Shore, a Coarse without an Urn.

The Pow'rs above shall listen to my Vows,
Whilst Vengeance from the Gods your guilty Head pursues;
Then haste, and gently lay me in the Dust,
And after hoist your Sails, and seek a Foreign Coast.

ODE XXIX. To Iccius.

Arabian Wealth and warlike Spoils
Are all your future Hope and Care,
Since you are bent on Martial Toils,
And for the haughty Mede new Chains prepare.

What Captive Wives of Heroes slain
Obsequious shall attend your State?
What noble Youth the next Campaign
Shall fill your Wine, and at your Table wait?

The rapid Streams with monstrous Force
May upwards climb the Mountain's Brow,
Ascending Tiber change its Course,
And backwards from the frighted Ocean flow;

Since you your New-made Armour take,
And tho' you promis'd better things,
Your Study and your Books forsake,
To follow bloody Wars and fighting Kings.

ODE XXX. To Venus.

Queen of Love! forsake a while
Paphos, and the Cyprian Isle;
To a brighter Shrine repair:
Glycera attends you there.

Let each Nymph and every Grace
And young Cupid fill the Place,
Youth by Beauty made polite,
With the nimble God of Wit.

ODE XXXI. To Apollo.

Son of Jove! To thee I pour
My sacred Wine and solemn Vows;
Give me not the yellow Store
Of Corn that on Sardinia grows;

Nor the Wealth that India yields,
Nor Herds that on Calabria stray,
Or the fertile Farms and Fields,
Where Liris eats his silent way.

They who large Possessions boast,
May revel underneath the Vine;
They who trade to some far Coast,
May fill the Bowl with gen'rous Wine.

Let the Gods the Merchant bless,
And give him three Returns a Year:
Herbs and Roots and Olives please
My Taste, as well as nobler Cheer.

Give me Strength and Pow'r to use
The Sweets of Life that glides away;
Let me still enjoy my Muse,
Nor ever doat whilst I decay.

ODE XXXII. To his Harp.

Charming Shell! If in the Shade
You and I have ever play'd
Songs that may outlast a Year,
Now begin a Roman Air.

Thee with Martial Ardor fir'd
Great Alcæus first inspir'd:
Thee in Camps and on the Main
Still he taught the Vocal Strain.

Bacchus ever gay and young,
Venus and her Boy he sung;
Lycus was his chiefest Care,
Arm'd with jetty Eyes and Hair.

Joy of Phœbus, lovely Lyre!
Thee the feasting Gods admire:
Thee I greet, thy Pow'rs controul
All my Cares, and charm my Soul.

ODE XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

Be not griev'd, my Friend! to find
A Woman Faithless and Unkind;
Nor in soft Elegy complain,
Because a Rival gives you Pain.

Fair Lycoris doats, you see,
On Cyrus; He on Pholoe:
But Wolves and Kids shall sooner join,
Than such a Rake That Beauty win.

Fair and Ugly, False and True,
All to great Venus' Yoke must bow:
Such Pleasure in our Pains she takes,
And laughs to see what Sport she makes.

I my self, tho' once belov'd,
Forsook a First-rate Nymph, and rov'd
To give a Fickle Jilt the Chace,
Unconstant as the Winds and Seas.

ODE XXXIV.

Once I contemn'd the Gods, their Pow'r deny'd,
When frantick Epicurus was my Guide;
But now that vain Philosophy I scorn:
At once to common Sense and Virtue I return.

Jove spoke the loud Conviction from on high,
And hurl'd his Bolts and Chariot through the Sky;
Compass'd with Glory and with Flames he rode,
And all the Subject World confess'd the Sov'reign God.

The Earth and Ocean felt the dreadful Blow,
That shook the gloomy Realms of Hell below,
The lofty Hills beneath his Thunders bow'd,
And venerable Atlas trembled as he stood,

The Heav'nly Pow'rs can raise or can depress,
Or overturn us Mortals as they please.
Fortune to Day will mount him to a Crown,
And the next Moment pull her new-made Fav'rite down.

ODE XXXV. To Fortune.

Dread Queen! whom num'rous Slaves adore,
Whose strong Almighty Arm can save,
And raise the prostrate Wretch to Wealth and Pow'r,
Or change a stately Triumph to a gloomy Grave:

The haughty Rich and humble Poor
Thy Empire own, thy Aid implore;
The Sailor and the Farmer bend to thee,
They who invert the Glebe, and they who plow the Sea.

The Cities, Kingdoms, Nations fear,
The barb'rous World, and Potent Rome;
Thee haughty Dames, and Mother Queens revere,
And purpled Tyranny from thee expects its Doom.

Thou in thy Anger can'st o'erthrow,
And lay the stately Column low:
Or push the mad tumultuous Rabble on,
To shake a well-built State, or overturn a Throne.

Where-e'er thou lead'st thy awful Train,
Necessity still stalks before:
Whose brazen Hands the Hook and Nails retain,
The Plummet and the Wedge, the Emblems of her Pow'r.

Fidelity in white Array,
And eager Hope still guard thy Way;
Though thou take Wing, and change thy fickle Mind,
Fidelity stands firm, and always stays behind.

The faithless Mob and perjur'd Whore
Retire, as soon as thou art flown;
Not one true Friend stays to assist the Poor:
All shun the needy Wretch, when his last Cask is run.

O mighty Queen! propitious smile
On Cæsar, bound for Britain's Isle:
And make those gallant Roman Troops thy Care,
Who to the distant East their Conqu'ring Banners bear.

When shall we have our fill of Blood?
Or when enjoy the Sweets of Peace?
A vile degen'rate Age, averse to Good!
When will our publick Crimes, and sad Disorders cease?

What Pow'r or Vengeance have we fear'd?
What God, or Shrine, or Altar spar'd?
Be kind, great Goddess! save our sinking State,
And turn thy Rage and Arms upon the Men we hate.

ODE XXXVI.

With Sacrifice and Songs attone
The Gods, who did my Wishes crown,
And to my Arms brought back again
My Numida, just come from Spain;
To him his Friends their Joys impart:
But only Lamia fills his Heart;
They ever faithful, ever true,
Together liv'd, together grew.
With a white Mark appoint the Day
For Drinking, Mirth, and am'rous Play;

In foaming Goblets pour the Wine,
And let the active Dance begin.
Fair Damalis shall baulk her Glass,
To fill her Numida's Embrace.
The Rose, the Lilly, and each Flow'r
Shall join to dress the fragrant Bow'r:
Fair Damalis all others scorns,
And only for her Hero burns:
She twines her Arms around his Waste,
As Ivy close, as Ivy fast.

ODE XXXVII.

Now let the Bowl with Wine and Mirth be crown'd,
Let antick Measures beat the Ground:
In costly Robes let every Shrine be drest,
And Luxury and Pomp adorn the plenteous Feast.

'Twas Criminal but lately to produce
The hoarded Cask and potent Juice,
When Egypt's Queen, with frantick Pride o'ercome,
Menac'd the lofty Walls and warlike Pow'rs of Rome.

Compass'd with Eunuchs, an inglorious Guard,
Above her Sex her Hopes she reer'd:
And drunk with Fortune's Smiles rush'd on,
At once to make the Empire of the World her own.

But Cæsar taught her Soul to fear at last,
When the mad Amazon he chac'd,
As in her Bark from Italy she fled,
And saw her blazing Fleet with hostile Flames bespread.

So the swift Pidgeon skims the liquid Air,
Chac'd by the Hawk; just so the Hare
Through snowy Fields the Thracian Hunter flies,
As Cæsar nimbly row'd to win the Royal Prize.

She, more than Woman, haughtily disdains
To wear a Roman Victor's Chains;
She scorn'd the Sword, and dar'd her Fate to meet;
Nor sought in Coasts remote, a mean, yet safe Retreat.

With Looks serene her Palace she survey'd,
Prostrate in Dust, in Ruins lay'd:
Then snatch'd the hungry Aspects to her Breast,
Whilst on her vital Blood the bloated Monsters feast.

Daring she dy'd, but knew not how to fear,
Nor could with tame Submission bear
Beneath the Conqu'ror's proud Wheels to bow,
Or, like an abject Slave, grace the Triumphal Show

ODE XXXVIII.

Persian Pomp and costly State,
Garlands and Perfumes I hate;
Be not too curious to compose
The flow'ry Sweets and fragrant Rose.

Why should you and I be fine,
Underneath a scanty Vine?
Let Myrtle Wreaths my Brows adorn,
All other Crowns but that I scorn.

The End of the first Book of ODES.

BOOK II.

ODE I. To Asinius Pollio.

Bold is your Muse, to sing in lofty Strain
The Terrors of a Civil War;
How far it rag'd, and whence it first began:
What various Turns distinguish'd every Year:
To what a height the Factious Senate ran:
What Streams of Blood were split, whose Vengeance yet we fear.

Hard is the Task, yet worthy such a Pen:
You tread on Quick-sands, pass through Fires;
Defer awhile the bloody Tragick Scene,
To guard the State, the State thy Aid requires:
Then take th' Athenian Buskin once again,
And finish the great Work thy Godlike Muse inspires.

In thee the Injur'd a sure Patron find:
Thy Voice the awful Senate sways;
Dalmatia's Conquest did thy Temples bind
With never-fading Green and deathless Praise.
Such is thy Genius, such thy Warlike Mind,
No Art to nobler Heights the pompous tail can raise.

Methinks I hear the horrid Dinn of Arms:
Bright gleaming Armour paints the Field:
The ratling Trumpet pours its dread Alarms:
The Brave lye low in Dust, the Valiant yield:
Revenge and Honour the stern Warrior warms,
And ev'ry Breast but Cato's is with Horror fill'd.

Juno, or some revengeful angry Pow'r,
That lately guarded Lybia's Coast,
Unable to protect her Fav'rite Shore,
Repays at last whatever Africk lost;
Satiates her thirsty Rage with Roman Gore,
And with our slaughter'd Sons attones Jugurtha's Ghost.

Each Latian Province, ev'ry Field and Plain,
The Marks of Civil Fury show;
What Coast, what Countrey wants that bloody Stain?
Whilst the proud Persian triumphs in our Woe.
The blushing Rivers, and discolour'd Main,
With Roman Slaughter dy'd, in Sanguine Surges flow.

Intestine Broils, and bloody Camps and Fights
But ill become the wanton Muse:
In Sports and Am'rous Pleasures she delights,
Nor farther the Heroick Strain pursues,
But droops her Wings, and near the Shades alights,
And for the gentle Lyre a softer Theme shall chuse.

ODE II. To C. Crispus Sallustius.

How dim is Gold, how faint it shines,
When hid below in dirty Mines?
Still as it spends, more bright it shews,
And takes its Value from its Use.

When Fame of Proculeïus sings,
She mounts on Everlasting Wings;
His free and gen'rous Actions prove
A Father's in a Brother's Love.

The Man who curbs his vicious Mind,
When to base Avarice inclin'd,
A nobler Empire far maintains,
Than he who o'er all Africk reigns.

'Tis great this Passion to controul,
For 'tis the Dropsie of the Soul:
Unless you purge each sickly Vein,
'Twill Thirst, and Drink, and Thirst again.

Virtue ne'er reckons with the Blest,
The Man who sways the potent East:
No specious Names, no false Disguise
Can cheat her clear unerring Eyes:

Only to him she gives the Crown,
And puts the Laurel Garland on,
Who against Bribes undaunted stands,
That neither touch his Eyes nor Hands.

ODE III. To Delius.

Be calm, my Friend! be easie and sedate,
And bend your Soul to ev'ry State:
However Fortune smiles or knits her Brow,
Let not your Passions rise too high, or sink too low.

Be calm, tho' heavily thy Moments pass,
Or tho' reclining on the Grass
You spend the Day in Mirth, and chear your Soul
With rich Falernian Liquor from the sparkling Bowl.

There, where the Poplar and the stately Pine
Meet in the Shade, and closely twine,
To form the Bow'r with thick intangled Bows,
And where the limpid Stream in curling Murmurs flows;

Now let your Slaves their Wines and Odours bring,
And all the Flow'rs that grace the Spring,
Whilst Plenty lasts, whilst you are gay and young,
And the indulgent Fates your Silken Thread prolong.

You must your Fields and pleasant Seat forego,
Where Tiber's yellow Waters flow;
You must to Pluto's gloomy Realm repair,
And leave your heaps of Wealth to a luxurious Heir.

What matters your high Blood and noble Birth,
When you are tumbled low in Earth?
'Tis the same thing, if naked on the Shore
You lye expos'd a Prey to Hell's relentless Pow'r.

In the eternal Urn our Lots are cast,
And to the Shades below we haste;
The grisly Ferryman shall waft us o'er,
Thence never to return to Earth's bright Confines more.

ODE IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

Blush not to own the gentle Dame,
Who wins your Heart, yet stains your Blood;
When nothing in the World could tame
Achilles, to a Slave he bow'd.

Stern Ajax stoop'd from all his Pride,
To wear Tecmessa's humble Chain;
Atrides midst a Triumph dy'd,
By one of his own Captives slain.

'Twas then, when Illium's lofty Tow'r
Was lay'd in Dust, her Forces kill'd,
And Troy, when Hector was no more,
No longer could maintain the Field.

Perhaps when Phyllis is your Bride,
You'll find your Blood much higher run,
Your self to some great House ally'd,
Whose fall her present Tears bemoan.

Think not, a Nymph so free and fair
Could ever come of vulgar Race:
There's something Noble in her Air,
We read her Lineage in her Face.

I gaze, when in full Bloom she shines,
Her Eyes her Charms can safely bear:
My Age to forty Years inclines,
In me you need no Rival fear.

ODE V.

The Nymph you love is Young and Wild,
In Cupid's active Game unskill'd;

Her Limbs are yet too weak to prove
The vig'rous Feats of sprightly Love.

She in the Meads, or on the Grass,
Among the Girls securely plays;
Or near some River's cooling side,
Where Willows grow, and Waters glide.

How can you taste what's Raw and Green,
A tender Thing, not yet Fifteen?
Stay till you see the Bloom arise,
And Ripeness wanton in her Eyes;

She'll meet you then in full-blown Charms,
And spring with Joy into your Arms,
When Time has borrow'd from your Years,
And plac'd the full Account to hers.

Not Pholoe the Coy and Fair
In Beauty shall with her compare;
Not Gyges shall more Conquests own,
Whose Form outshines the Silver Moon.

Him if among the Maids you place,
His flowing Hair and blushing Face
Would hide his doubtful Sex so well,
Who only looks, could never tell.

ODE VI. To Septimius.

Though I am bound with you for Spain,
Resolv'd to make one more Campaign,
To see the Straights, and sunny Moor,
That never felt the Roman Pow'r:
Yet still I wish, that Tibur's Seat
May be my last, my sweet Retreat,
Where I may rest from Dangers free,
Weary'd with Toils by Land and Sea:

Or let the Fates indulgent bless
Their Fav'rite with a safe Recess,
Where fair Galesus Waters run,
And fam'd Phalantus fix'd his Throne:
There's not a Corner of the Earth,
So form'd for Plenty, Joy and Mirth;
No richer Land, no better Soil,
Afford such Honey or such Oil;
Here neither Heat nor Cold can hurt,
The Springs are long, the Winters short:
Nor can Falernian Hills produce
A better Vine, a nobler Juice.
Here you and I may gently pass
The sweet Remainder of our Days:
Here, when your Friend, your Horace dies,
You shall observe his Obsequies;
Kindly his glowing Ashes mourn,
And drop a Tear into his Urn.

ODE VII. To Pompeius Varus.

Which of the Gods my gen'rous Friend preserv'd,
And brought him to his Native Land?
With whom so long ago in Arms I serv'd,
When Brutus did our Troops Command:
With whom such Toils I bore, such Dangers try'd:
Thou dearest to my Soul of all Mankind beside!

With thee I march'd to fam'd Philippi's Plain,
But could not stand the Bloody Field;
Whilst daring Heroes mingled with the Slain,
Unmade for Arms, I dropt my Shield.
With thee the smiling Hours I oft consum'd,
With sprightly Joy inspir'd, with Syrian Oil perfum'd.

Me, midst the dreadful Rout and Dinn of Arms,
The God of Wit and Eloquence

Wrapt in a Cloud, and sav'd from fighting Harms,
And timely came to my Defence:
Whilst War's strong Tide returning as before
Thee in her Whirlpool caught, and to new Slaughter bore.

Now then, to Jove make good your solemn Vows,
And underneath my Laurel rest:
Spare not the Hogshead destin'd for your use,
Forget your Toils, and crown the Feast;
From costly Shells the breathing Odours pour,
And let the pond'rous Bowl with sprightly Wine run oe'r.

What Slave with Myrtle Wreaths shall crown our Brows?
What Sovereign, what drunken Lord,
Shall the fair Queen of Love and Beauty chuse,
To rule the Feast, and sway the Board?
Since you are come, with Freedom I resign
Each Faculty and Sense, to Friendship and to Wine.

ODE VIII. To Barine.

I should believe whate'er you swore,
Had Vengeance from some injur'd Pow'r
With the least spot your Beauties stain'd,
Your Iv'ry Teeth, or snowy Hand:

But you, though perjur'd and forsworn,
Your Gods as well as Lovers scorn,
And still shine out more Bright and Fair,
The publick Grief and publick Care.

'Tis your Delight to break your Vows,
Though by the Urn that does enclose
Your Mother's sacred Dust you swear,
By ev'ry God, and ev'ry Star.

You think, the Queen of Beauty smiles,
To see your little wanton Wiles:

The harmless Nymphs admire your Arts,
And Cupid laughs, and whets his Darts.

Your Lovers with your Crimes increase,
And still pursue and still address;
Whilst of your Falshood they complain,
And curse, but cannot break the Chain.

The aged Sire and tender Maid,
Are of your brighter Charms afraid;
Each Bride observes her Husband's Eyes,
Lest your's his wandring Heart surprize.

ODE IX. To Valgius.

The Show'rs that beat upon the dreery Plain,
Soon spend their Rage and quickly cease;
The Storms are lay'd that vex'd the rolling Main,
And a new Calm succeeds, and smooths the smiling Seas;

Armenia's Fields shake off their Chains of Ice,
Nor labour with eternal Snows:
The Winds are hush'd that lately shook tne Trees,
And stript the verdant Honours from their naked Bows:

But you with endless Grief, incessant Moan,
That knows no Measure and no End,
Salute the rising and the setting Sun,
Still weep your mighty Loss, your dear departed Friend.

Not so old Nestor once bewail'd his Son,
Nor wept incessant o'er the dead;
Nor so, when youthful Troïlus was gone,
Their everlasting Tears his Phrygian Sisters shed.

Then be appeas'd: let Girls and Children mourn;
A nobler Theme demands your Care,

To sing what Laurels Cæsar's Head adorn,
What Spoils and Trophies won, to grace the present Year:

What Captive Streams in humble Murmurs glide,
To kiss the mighty Victor's Feet;
What vanquish'd Troops on narrow Confines ride,
Whose Lands to Roman Arms and Roman Bounds submit.

ODE X. To Licinius Murena.

'Tis best the middle way to keep,
And not decline to either Hand,
Nor launch too far into the Deep,
Nor steer your Course too near the Land.

Who neither wants nor wishes more
Than what befits an even State,
Avoids the Curse of being Poor,
The Plague and Torments of the Great.

On the tall Pine, and stately Tow'r.
Its force the raging Tempest spends;
When Lightnings play, and Thunders roar,
The highest Mountains soonest bends.

The Man, who arms his steady Breast
To stand unmov'd the worst of Ills,
When Fortune frowns, still hopes the best,
And fears the worst, whene'er she smiles.

The Pow'rs above the Seasons guide;
Though now it rains 'twill quickly shine,
Apollo lays his Arms aside,
And tunes his Harp to Lays Divine.

When Clouds grow thick, be bravely wise,
With Patience guard your constant Mind:

But if a merry Gale arise,
Contract your Sails, nor trust the Wind.

ODE XI. To Quintius Hirpinius.

What is't, my Friend! to you or me,
What's done on t'other side the Sea?
Whether our Armies push the War
To Realms unconquer'd and unknown?
Be easie still, and free from Care:
Life is soon satisfy'd, and quickly done.

Beauty and Youth fly fast away,
And with 'em Love and wanton Play:
The Flow'rs forego their fading Green,
The Silver Moon declining wains:
Mind not what's future and unseen,
Nor anxiously enquire what Jove or Fate ordains.

Here underneath some shady Tree,
Let's stretch at Ease, from Sorrow free;
With Odours grace the verdant Bed,
With fragrant Flow'rs our Foreheads crown;
Weave rosie Garlands for the Head,
And in full Bowls our Cares and Troubles drown.

Whilst yonder limpid River strays,
What Slave shall cool each flagrant Glass?
Or who to our Embraces bring
Fair Lyde, with her Iv'ry Lyre?
Bid her make haste, to toy and sing,
Drest in full Beauty and her loose Attire.

ODE XII. To Mæcenas.

It ill becomes the Lyrick Strain
Of Battels and of Camps to tell,
What Slaughter dy'd the Punick Main,
How Hannibal was slain, and Carthage fell;

How the mad drunken Centaurs warr'd,
And pour'd at once their Wine and Blood:
How, when the Gods their Safety fear'd,
Alcides' Arm the Rebel Race withstood.

You in just History and Prose,
Can best describe a Mortal God:
What Triumphs Rome to Cæsar owes:
How on the Necks of Captive Kings he trod.

I, by the Muse's strict Command,
Sing of Licimnia's Magick Voice,
Her Eyes, whose Beams no Heart can stand,
Her Soul, how true, how faithful to its Choice!

How sweet her Wit, how great her Mien!
When in the active Dance she treads:
And midst the Nymphs distinctly seen,
At chaste Diana's Feast the Revels leads.

For one so Constant, and so Fair,
You would all Phrygia's Wealth forego:
And justly prize her fragrant Hair
Above the Sweets that in Arabia grow,

See how her Snowy Neck she turns,
To meet the fiery eager Kiss!
She sometimes snatches what she scorns,
And dearly loves the Pleasure she denies.

ODE XIII.

Upon a Day by Fate accurs'd
Thou, a pernicious Plant, wert nurs'd;
Set by some vile unlucky Hand,
A Plague and Burden to the Land.

That guilty Hand was surely dy'd
With the deep Crime of Parricide;
Or with the Slaughter of some Guest
Defil'd the bloody imp'ous Feast.

Poyson or something worse had stain'd
With lasting Guilt that luckless Hand,
Which on my harmless Grounds and me
Bestow'd this fatal falling Tree.

Who can foresee what is to come?
Or who prevent impending Doom?
The Sailor minds the Winds and Tide,
And dares all Elements beside.

The Parthian fears a Roman Foe;
The Roman dreads a Parthian Bow;
While silent Death still sweeps away
The World, her everlasting Prey.

How near was I to Realms of Night?
Where Minos does in Judgment sit;
Where pious Shades walk o'er the Plains;
Where Proserpine and Darkness reigns:

Where Sappho's warbling Measures tell,
By what disastrous Cause she fell:
Alcæus in sublimer Strains
Of Toils by Sea and Land complains.

The Ghosts stand round them, and admire
The Virgin's Voice, the Hero's Lyre;
The listning Crowds with Pleasure hear
The Fall of Kings and Feats of War.

Ev'n Hydra does his Rage unbend,
And all his hundred Heads attend:
Such Musick charms each knotted Snake
Which in long Curls the Furies shake.

The tortur'd Ghosts forget their Pains,
And catch with Joy the Heav'nly Strains;
Orion all his Care forgoes,
And lets his bridled Lyons loose.

ODE XIV. To Posthumus.

The fleeting Years post on apace,
And grey Old-age draws near,
Death knows no Mercy, no Delays,
Nor Vertue's self will spare.

No Hecatombs can e'er attone
The sullen King of Hell;
He calls all Human kind his own,
Since the first Heroes fell.

All, who of Breath and Food partake,
Must cross the gloomy Shore;
Be ferry'd o'er the Stygian Lake,
The Wealthy and the Poor.

In vain we fly the Toils of War,
And Dangers of the Main;
Or Autumn's sickly Season fear,
When Plagues and Fevers reign.

Down to Cocytus we must go,
Where Ghosts are doom'd to turn,
With fruitless Toil and endless Woe,
The rolling Stone and Urn.

Here you must leave the Nymph you love,
Your Fields, and pleasant Home;
And only Cypress from the Grove
Attend you to your Tomb.

Then your rich Wines, your hoarded Store,
Fit for a Prelate's Feast,
Your Heir shall on the Pavement pour,
When you are gone to Rest.

ODE XV.

What Piles and stately Domes are rais'd
Where late the shining Plow-share pass'd?
What vast Canals, dug deep and far,
Like mighty Lakes or Seas appear?

The Flower-bed and Myrtle Shade
The Olive and the Elm invade:
In Scents and Show we grow profuse,
Careless of Plenty and of Use.

Thick Ever-greens luxurious grown,
Produce no Fruit, admit no Sun:
When Romulus' and Cato's Rules
Prevail'd, the Age knew no such Fools.

Their Faults were few, their Fortunes small,
For on the State they lavish'd all;
Then no new modish Seats were built,
Founded on Vanity and Guilt:

Some City or some Shrine was rear'd;
For Gods and Men their Bounty shar'd;
Whilst they enjoy'd, with sweet Content,
What Fruits and Simples Nature lent.

ODE XVI. To Grosphus.

The Sailor longs and prays for Ease,
When Storms grow loud on every side,
And far from Shore his Vessel seize,
Whilst all the Lights of Heav'n are hid.

For Ease the Warlike Thracian fights,
That never can be bought or sold;
For this the Mede in Arms delights,
Preferring Ease to heaps of Gold.

Nor Wealth nor Honours can allay
The inward Troubles of the Great;
Nor chace those Swarms of Cares away,
That still attend on Pomp and State.

He, who is happily possess'd
Of what the Golden Mean requires,
Never resigns his balmy Rest
To slavish Fears or vain Desires.

'Tis foolish to enlarge our Views,
Since Life is short and quickly done;
In vain we would new Climates chuse,
But never from our selves can run.

Nor Martial Troops, nor Ships of War,
Can ever leave black Care behind,
That still pursues them in the Rear,
Outstrips the Stag, outflies the Wind.

'Gainst future Ills there's no Relief;
The present Good is always best:
Be wise, and mingle Joy with Grief,
Since nothing is compleatly blest.

Achilles was untimely slain;
Tithonus felt a slow Decay;
The Gods in various Lots to Man
Their Favours and their Frowns convey.

You num'rous Flocks and Herds possess,
The fruitful Cow and neighing Mare;
You in your Chariot loll at ease;
You the best richest Scarlet wear.

I with my Little am content,
And of my Lyrick Genius proud;
Since the good Gods their Vot'ry lent
A Soul, that can despise the Crowd.

ODE XVII. To Mæcenas.

Do not oppose a just Decree;
The Fates ordain, and I have vow'd,
Not to out-live the Day you die;
You my best Friend and sweetest Good.

Think not, since you and I are one,
That Horace can himself desert;
Or live when half his Soul is gone,
Or stay behind his better Part.

Thus Hand in Hand we'll greet the Shades:
'Tis so resolv'd and fix'd by Fate:
I'll follow where Mæcenas leads;
Our Lives shall have one common Date.

Should dire Chimæra guard the Way,
Or he who wields a hundred Hands,
Still I'd rush on without Delay,
So Justice, and so Fate commands.

What-ever luckless Planet sways
My Birth, the Scorpion or the Scales,
Or Capricorn's portentous Rays,
Who o'er the western Main prevails;

Your fatal Star agrees with mine,
And both our Lives and Deaths unite:
Jove did on you indulgent shine,
And sav'd you from old Saturn's Spite.

For you the Crowds their Raptures tell,
Your Safety and their Joy proclaim;
On me a Trunk unheeded fell,
But Faunus to my Succour came:

He favours Wit, to him I'll yield
The Off'rings which my Vows decreed:
Whilst you some Shrine or Temple build,
For me a tender Lamb shall bleed.

ODE XVIII.

Nor Ivory, nor glittering Plate
Enrich my House with pompous State;
No Columns from the Parian Mine
Beneath a Roof of Cedar shine;
I nor the gaudy Structures boast,
Nor Wealth that Attalus engrost;
No Purple Robes my Limbs adorn,
By numerous Attendants born:
But still I plead my well-known Right
To Friendship, Honesty, and Wit;

The Wealthy court me though I'm poor,
Nor will I ask the Gods for more:
My Sabine Farm supplies my Wants,
I need no Places, beg no Grants.
The Hours and Days glide swiftly on,
And ev'ry Month renews the Moon.
You make your Seat more gay and fine,
Just as your sinking Years decline,
Build on new Plans for those to come,
Unmindful of your Grave and Tomb;
Destroy the Lands you now possess,
To dig Canals as wide as Seas;
Remove the ancient sacred Bounds,
Encroaching on your Neighbour's Grounds.
Your Tenants quit their peaceful Home,
And for their haughty Lord make Room;
They and their Wives seek new Abodes,
Their wretched Sons, and exil'd Gods.
Give o'er this Vanity and Pride;
The Fates another Home provide;
Pluto's capacious gloomy Seat
Must be your last, your sure Retreat:
The Prince and Peasant, Rich and Poor,
March Hand in Hand on Lethe's Shore:
No Gold could bribe the Pow'rs below,
To let the fam'd Prometheus go;
The God of Hell in endless Chains
All Tantalus's Race detains,
And frees the Poor from Toil and Woe,
Whether they worship him or no.

ODE XIX.

The God of Wine on a wild Mountain stood;
(Let future Times the mystick Tale approve)
He taught the Nymphs and Satyrs of the Wood,
Who to attend his Songs forsook the Grove:
With Ears erect all to the Audience crowd;
Ev'n I his Raptures feel and dread the God I love.

Great Pow'r! who wields the sacred Ivy Spear;
Ease my full Breast, thy wonted Rage restrain:
Let me proclaim the Beauties of the Year,
And sing thy Rites, thy frantick Virgin Train:
How Wine and Milk compleat our plenteous Cheer,
Whilst thro' the luscious Comb the Trees their Honey strain.

I'll sing how Pentheus and Lycurgus fell,
And by their Deaths thy just Revenge confess'd;
Of thy Ariadne's Silver Locks I'll tell,
Whose Charms the number of the Stars increas'd:
By thee the fruitful Hills the Vale excell;
Thou turn'st the rapid Streams, and lull'st the Sea to rest.

Thee the mad Crew of Bacchanals adore,
That shake in twisted Knots their dangling Hair:
When Heav'n was scal'd, thy single Arm and Pow'r
Rescu'd the Gods, and turn'd the doubtful War;
The Giants felt thy Force and heard thee roar,
Wrapt in a Lions Form that sill'd their Troops with Fear.

Till then thy mighty Godhead was asperst,
As only bent on Luxury and Ease,
Distinguish'd at the Gambol and the Feast;
But now thy warlike Arm insur'd Success,
Redeem'd thy Brother Gods, their Foes dispers'd,
And gave the World above a sure and lasting Peace.

Thee Cerberus with Awe and Dread beheld,
Bearing aloft thy Horns of beamy Light;
He wagg'd his fawning Tail, with Pleasure fill'd;
Did at thy Feet his forked Tongue submit,
And as you travers'd the Elysian Field,
Welcom'd so great a Guest, and spoke his fond Delight.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

On new uncommon Pinions born,
To nobler heights I rise;
My former Shape and Residence I scorn,
I kick the subject Earth, and mount the upper Skies.

My high Descent and Birth I boast;
These earthy Dregs defie:
I'll not be banish'd to the Stygian Coast,
Nor own the Pow'r of Fate, nor condescend to die.

Chang'd to a Swan in Milk-white Down,
I feel my Legs grow light:
My Arms and Shoulders put new Feathers on;
I clap my New-born Wings, and urge th' impetuous Flight.

Like Icarus I float in Air;
Thence with a curious Eye,
Survey the Hellespontick Straights from far,
And whence the North begins, and where the Syrtes lye.

From Colchis and Gelonia's Shore,
I pass to Realms unknown;
To Dacia, priding in her warlike Pow'r,
Thence to the rough Iberian, and the rapid Rhone.

Say not, I dy'd; nor shed a Tear,
Nor round my Ashes mourn,
Nor of my needless Obsequies take care;
All Pomp and State is lost upon an empty Urn.

The End of the Second Book of ODES.

BOOK III.

ODE I. To Asinius Pollio.

Away the Vulgar, whom I scorn and hate!
All with attentive Silence wait,
While I, the Muses Priest, long Silence break,
And to the list'ning Youths in mystick Numbers speak.

Kings by Superior Might their Empire sway,
But Kings themselves great Jove obey;
He awes this World with his Imperial Nod,
The Gyants felt his Bolts, and own'd the Victor God.

Mankind in Fortune's various Favours share:
Some stretch their rich Possessions far;
Some on the Bench, or at Elections shine;
Others a deathless Name by generous Actions win.

The Courtier of his Equipage is proud,
When num'rous Slaves his Levees crowd,
But Rich, and Poor, and all, must meet at last,
When in the fatal Urn their mingled Lots are cast.

Whilst the drawn Sword hangs o'er the Tyrant's Head,
Though with the richest Dainties fed,
No more he relishes the luscious Feast,
Nor hears the warbling Song invite to balmy Rest.

Rest is the Portion of the careful Swain,
Nor does the humble Cot disdain;
But lulls the Shepherd stretch'd on Tempe's Field,
Fann'd by the cooling Gales the gentle Zephyrs yield.

He who enjoys his All, nor covets more,
Minds not the Sea, secure on Shore,
Nor racks his Breast with black tormenting Cares,
Though Storms attend the rising or the setting Stars.

Unmov'd he sees the Vineyards rent with Hail,
The Fields disrob'd, the Harvest fail,
The fertile Product of the Orchat lost,
Burnt up by scorching Heats, or numb'd with chilling Frost.

The Tyrant Landlord, and his num'rous Train
Of toiling Slaves, contract the Main;
Upon the Ocean's Banks new Structures raise,
And from their wonted Haunts the injur'd Fishes chace.

But though he climbs aloft to upper Air,
He cannot shun intruding Care:
Care overtakes the Ships that nimbly glide,
And warlike Cavaliers, when in high Pomp they ride.

Since then, nor rich Perfumes, nor flowing Wine,
Nor Pavements from the Marble Mine,
Nor purple Robes the least Relief impart,
To ease a troubled Spirit, cure a wounded Heart:

Why should I think my Happiness compleat,
In a new lofty modish Seat?
Why change my little Store and Peace of Mind,
For Pomp perplext with Cares, and Wealth with Torments join'd?

ODE II.

Let the gay Youth be train'd to bear
The Hardships and Fatigues of War;
To dart the Lance, and rein the Steed,
And make the haughty Parthian bleed.

Let him, inur'd to Camps and Arms,
Rouse at the Trumpet's shrill Alarms;
When from the hostile Turret seen
By some fair Princess or young Queen,

She sighing cries; Alas! my Spouse!
Do not too rashly charge such Foes:
Grant Heav'n! you shun yon dreadful Man,
Who, Lyon-like, lays waste the Plain!

Who would not for his Countrey die,
When 'tis as vain as base to fly?
What Coward can out-run his Fate?
For Death comes on as we retreat.

Virtue with Native Lustre shines,
And still pursues her just Designs:
'Tis not to please the giddy Town,
She takes, or lays her Honours down.

Virtue still finds new Ways to rise,
And free Admission to the Skies:
She scorns the Crowd, and homeward bound
Takes Wing, and spurns the misty Ground.

Next Virtue, Silence claims a Place:
He who his God or Friend betrays,
Should never hoist a Sail to Sea,
Or ever live at Land with me.

Jove sometimes in an angry Mood,
Mingles the Wicked with the Good;
But Vengeance moves with Leaden Feet,
Yet will, though slow, the Guilty meet.

ODE III.

He, who by Principle is sway'd,
In Truth and Justice still the same;
Is neither of the Crowd afraid,
Though civil Broils the State inflame;
Nor to a haughty Tyrant's Frown will stoop,
Nor to a raging Storm, when all the Winds are up.

Should Nature with Convulsions shake,
Struck with the fiery Bolts of Jove;
The final Doom, and dreadful Crack,
Cannot his constant Courage move:
By Arts like these, Alcides fam'd in Wars,
Was to the Gods advanc'd, and Pollux to the Stars.

With these Augustus, Heav'nly Guest,
Sits down, and puts the Nectar round:
These Arts brought Bacchus to the Feast,
By Tygers drawn, with Godhead crown'd;
These rais'd Quirinus to the blest Abodes;
When Juno smiling thus bespoke th' assembled Gods.

A foreign Dame and foolish Boy,
Who by false Judgment urg'd my Hate,
Conspir'd to ruin wretched Troy,
And hasten'd its untimely Fate;

E'er since the Founder of that perjur'd House
Deny'd the Gods their due, and broke his solemn Vows.

I to Minerva join'd my Pow'r,
To crush the vile detested Race;
Old Priam's Palace is no more,
And Helen's fair bewitching Face;
My Greeks are sated with the Phrygian Blood,
Though Hector's Sword so long their conqu'ring Arms withstood.

Here all our mutual Quarrels cease:
At length the Ten-years Toil is done;
Great Mars my Anger shall appease,
And I accept his warlike Son:
Here let him with Immortal Beings sit,
With Nectar crown the Bowl, and grace the Realms of Light.

Whilst he enjoys eternal Ease,
And Troy's demolish'd Tow'rs
Are parted by the middle Seas
From fair Italia's Shores,
His exil'd Sons new Empires shall adorn,
So long as Flocks and Herds insult old Priam's Urn.

There let the Cattel graze and breed,
Whilst Rome her lofty Tow'rs shall crown
With Trophies from the vanquish'd Mede,
And give new Laws to Realms unknown;
Extend her Terrors and her Glory far,
And through the subject World her warlike Eagles bear.

Where the Globe's better half divides,
There let them unmolested Reign,
Far as the Middle Ocean glides,
But still from Sacrilege abstain;
And leave to its first harmless Parent Earth
The bright bewitching Oar; nor give the Idol Birth.

Where Nature's utmost Limits end,
Let Fame display their high Renown,

And to each Clime their Arms extend,
The frozen Isles, and Torrid Zone:
Whilst Troy in deep eternal Ruins lies,
Let Rome's auspicious State on her Foundations rise.

'Tis on these Terms that Empire stands:
Should their ambitious forward Race,
With superstitious wicked Hands,
Rebuild that most detested Place;
Once more it should be sack'd, its Children bleed;
Whilst I, the Wife of Jove, my conqu'ring Grecians lead.

Should Phœbus with a brazen Wall
Three times her haughty Tow'rs surround,
Troy should three times unpity'd fall
By Grecian Arms, and kiss the Ground;
Three times her Matrons should lament the Slain,
And thrice her Captive Sons endure the Victor's Chain.

Stay, Muse! For whither would you fly?
'Tis not for your less lofty Wing
To reach Jove's firm Decrees, too high
For you, an humble Maid, to sing:
Do not the Speeches of the Gods debase,
Nor sink the mighty Theme with low unequal Lays.

ODE IV. To Calliope.

Descend, Celestial Muse, inspire
Thy own Apollo's vocal Lyre;
Or on the Pipe, or with thy Voice prolong
Thy ever pleasing Lays, and never dying Song.

Attend my Raptures, and be still;
'Tis not a frantick Rage I feel;
But in Elysian Shades and Groves I stray,
Where limpid Waters flow, and gentle Breezes play.

Upon a Mountain tall and steep,
When tir'd, I lay'd me down to Sleep,
Beyond Apulia's Bounds; and round my Head
Th' officious Doves a verdant Cov'ring spread.

'Twas wond'rous thought by all the Swains,
By him who tills Ferentum's Plains,
Or in the Bantine Woods and Forests lives,
Or on the sunny Top of Acherontia's Cliffs;

That neither Snakes nor Beasts of Prey
Should bite or wound me, where I lay;
A bold couragious Youth! with Myrtle crown'd;
Whom the good Gods inspire, with Guardian Care surround.

Still I am Yours, ye sacred Nine!
Whether the Sabine Hills confine,
Or cold Præneste's Seat your Bard detains,
Or Baia's gentle Streams, or Tibur's fruitful Plains.

The Muses did their Poet shield,
At fam'd Philippi's bloody Field;
And from the falling Tree and stormy Main,
To grace their sacred Spring, preserv'd their grateful Swain.

When you are kind, when you are near,
I think no Ill, nor Danger fear;
Supported by your Aid, secure I stand
Amidst the roaring Winds, or on the burning Sand.

Guided by you, I safely pass
Gelonia's Bounds, and warlike Thrace,
The Scythian Streams by endless Frosts confin'd,
Or Britain's distant Shores, to Foreigners unkind.

When Cæsar and his Troops retire
And quit the Field, the vocal Quire
Lead to their Bow'r the Victor cloy'd with Wars;
With Songs refresh his Mind, and sooth his rising Cares.

You smile to see Mankind grow wise,
And just and good, by your Advice;
From you we learn, you in sweet Numbers tell,
How Titan's monstrous Race by forked Lightning fell.

By him they fell, whose awful Hand
The Liquid Main, and solid Land,
Cities and Empires, Hell and Darkness sways;
Whom every God above, and Man below, obeys

They on their num'rous Arms rely'd,
And dar'd the Gods with impious Pride;
Mountains on Mountains, Rocks on Rocks they pil'd,
And each Immortal Breast with Dread and Terror fill'd.

But Mimas falls, Typhœus flies;
Porphyrion of enormous Size,
And Rhæcus, and Enceladus were slain,
Who whirl'd the Rocks on high, and naked left the Plain.

Soon as they saw the blazing Shield
Of Pallas shine, they left the Field;
When Vulcan rag'd, and Juno met the Foe,
And Phœbus aim'd his Darts, and strung his sounding Bow:

He, us'd to gentler Arts than War,
Wantons and baths his flowing Hair
In fair Castalia's Stream, or lightly roves
Through Lycia's Sylvan Brakes, or his own Delian Groves.

The Gods are ever good and kind
To Courage, when with Conduct join'd;
But Brutal Force in a bad Cause they hate;
And soon it sinks beneath its own unwieldy Weight.

This Truth let monstrous Gyges own,
By the victorious Gods o'erthrown;
And He, who stung with lustful Fury try'd
Diana's Virgin Charms, and by her Arrows dy'd.

The Earth bewails her impious Race,
Transfix'd with Light'ning's pointed Rays,
Hurry'd to Pluto's gloomy Cells below,
Whilst Ætna's dark Abodes with endless Sulphur glow.

On Tityus' Liver Night and Day
The Vulture feeds, and guards her Prey;
With him the fam'd Perithöus complains
Of Tortures worse than Love, and more enduring Chains.

ODE V.

When Jove in Thunder speaks his Pow'r,
Though he's unseen, we know he reigns
But Cæsar's visible, whom all adore,
Since Britain feels his Yoke, and Persia wear his Chains.

Where is Rome's ancient Honour fled?
Could those who follow'd to the Field
Where Crassus fought, with base Barbarians wed,
And twice made Slaves, to a new Bondage yield?

The Flow'r of Italy is gone;
In Median Camps they spent their Blood;
Forgot the Vestal Fires and sacred Gown,
Though Jove still smil'd, and Rome unconquer'd stood.

'Twas not by Principles like these
That Regulus deserv'd his Fame;
But urg'd the Senate never to release
Their Pris'ners lost in War, nor stain the Roman Name.

To endless Chains he doom'd the Slave:
Have I not seen, the Patriot cry'd,
Our Roman Arms to Punick Altars cleave,
Not rough with manly Wounds, nor yet with Slaughter dy'd?

Have I not seen our free-born Sons
Coupled in Bonds, in Triumph show'd,
Through Gates wide open, and unguarded Towns?
Whilst Harvest grac'd the Fields which we had sown with Blood.

Will he that's ransom'd with a Price,
Return more active to the Fight?
Alas! You pay too dear for Cowardice:
Nor can the Wool, once stain'd, regain its native White.

Virtue once banish'd from the Mind
To her first Seat no more returns:
Will Slaves grow valiant, or the hunted Hind
That scapes the Toils, engage, and wield her warlike Horns?

Will he, by his own Valour, save
His Countrey in a second War,
Who in the first at Carthage was a Slave,
His Back with Fetters gall'd, his Soul benumb'd with Fear?

'Tis a Mock-fight, where Soldiers owe
Their Lives, regardless of their Fame,
Not to their Swords, but a forgiving Foe:
O Carthage, justly great! O Rome, a hated Name!

Thus he, then with a stern Regard,
Fixt on the Ground a Martial Look;
And like a Criminal, for Death prepar'd,
His Wife and clinging Sons from his Embraces shook.

The doubtful Senate heard his Cause,
At length confirming what he spoke;
Unheard of Council, worthy our Applause
Whilst through his crowding Friends the glorious Exile broke.

Too well he knew his savage Foes
'Their Racks and Tortures had prepar'd;
Yet still prest on, and from their Arms got loose
Who with Officious Force the dreadful Passage guard.

So calm and unconcern'd he went,
As if retiring from the Bar,
With thronging Clients cloy'd, with Pleading spent,
To fair Tarentum's Fields, to taste the Countrey Air.

ODE VI.

Unhappy Romans! doom'd to bear
The Load of your Forefathers Guilt;
Till by your Piety and Care
Our Shrines and Temples are rebuilt:
You reign by bowing to the Gods Commands,
From this your State arose, on this your Glory stands.

Your impious Land already wears
The Marks of Vengeance from on high
Feels the yet smarting Parthian Scars,
And blushes with ignoble Dye;
When from Monæses' Arms your Squadrons fled,
And Rome's collected Spoils adorn'd the Victor's Head.

The Dacian and the sunny Moor
By Sea and Land their Forces bent,
At once to sink the Roman Pow'r
When Civil Rage the Empire rent;
When like a Deluge Vice triumphant reign'd,
And a degen'rate Race the Marriage Rites prophan'd.

Hence the Contagion first began,
And reach'd our Blood, and stain'd our Race:
The blooming Virgin, ripe for Man,
A thousand wanton Airs displays:
Train'd to the Dance her well-taught Limbs she moves,
And sates her wishing Soul with loose Incestuous Loves.

The Bride her lustful Rake invites,
Before her Husband's Face to toy;
She stays not for his drunken Fits,
Nor in a Corner tastes the Joy;
But in her Cuckolds Presence sells her Charms,
And grasps the Merchant's Gold, or meets the Captain's Arms.

'Twas not from such a motly Brood
Those better braver Romans came,
Who dy'd the Punick Seas with Blood,
And rais'd so high their Countrey's Fame;
By whom Antiochus and Pyrrhus dy'd,
And Hannibal was tam'd, and Carthage lost her Pride.

But hardy Youths inur'd to toil,
Or fell the Wood, or till the Land,
Or turn with heavy Spades the Soil,
By a dread Mother's just Command,
Nor ceas'd their Work, 'till down the Azure Way,
Sol rowl'd his beamy Car, and shut the chearful Day.

Time alters all things in its Pace,
Each Century new Vices owns;
Our Fathers bore an Impious Race,
And we shall have more wicked Sons:
Impiety still gathers in its Course;
The Present Times are bad, the Future will be worse.

ODE VII. To Asterie.

Do not for ever pine and mourn;
For if the Winds propitious prove,
Gyges will to your Arms return,
His Wealth increasing with his Love.

Now tost by Storms to distant Shores,
He curses his relentless Stars;

With soft Complaints consumes the Hours,
And passes all the Night in Tears.

Mean while, some Foreign Chloe tries
By am'rous Wiles to win his Heart;
And bids the Envoy of her Sighs
Exert each soft and wanton Art.

She tells, how Prætus' lustful Wife
With Crimes invented by her Rage,
Had almost reach'd her Lover's Life,
Too cold and chast for such an Age.

She tells, how Peleus scorn'd the Dame,
Who left him to the cruel Fates;
And to provoke his am'rous Flame,
A thousand curious Tales relates.

But all in vain: He stops his Ears;
And all her artful Charms defies:
Do you, like him, avoid these Snares,
Lest some gay Youth your Heart surprize.

In Mars's Field Enipeus rides
The manag'd Steed, by all admir'd;
With pliant Force the Waves divides,
And swims the Tuscan Stream untir'd.

But though he calls you, Cruel Fair,
Do not relent, but shut your Door;
The Dusk and dang'rous Shades beware,
And shun the Serenading Hour.

ODE VIII. To Mæcenas

You, who excel in every Art
That Greek and Roman Tongues impart,
May ask, unmarry'd as I am,
Why to the Feast of Mars I came?

Why I am drest in Flow'rs and Greens?
And what this Turf, this Incense means?
Know; to a God my Vows I pay;
A God preserv'd my Life this Day.

A Goat to Bacchus bleeds, for he
Sav'd me and held the falling Tree:
I'll tap a Hogshead of that Year,
When Tully fill'd the Consul's Chair.

Come to the Feast, my Friend! and take
A hundred Glasses for my Sake;
Let Strife and Noise be far away;
Our Tapers shall renew the Day.

Leave all the Cares that vex your Mind;
And grand Affairs of State, behind:
What though the Dacian Army's fled,
Or civil Broils infest the Mede?

What though the Spaniard wins the Field,
And makes the rough Cantabrian yield?
Or though at length the Scythians long
For Peace, and leave their Bows unstrung?

E'en let the State-Machine rowl on,
Mind not its Danger, nor your own:
Enjoy the present Hour, and clear
Your Brows from Frowns, your Soul from Fear.

ODE IX.

HORACE.
When first our Hearts and Arms did join,
When you were Mine, and only Mine,
I thought my self more truly blest
Than all the Monarchs of the East.

LYDIA.
When only I your Bosom fill'd,
Nor Lydia did to Chloe yield,
Then Lydia might with Ilia vie;
None was so Blest so great as I.

HORACE.
Now Chloe's Voice, and tuneful Lyre,
And Beauty, set my Soul on Fire;
I'd die to save the gentle Fair,
If Death her dearer Life would spare.

LYDIA.
Young Calais is all my Joy;
In mutual Flames I meet the Boy:
Had I two Lives, I'd gladly give
Both to the Fates, so he might live.

HORACE.
What if my former Love return,
And equally again we burn?
If Chloe should resign her Part,
And you once more possess my Heart?

LYDIA.
Though He I love is heav'nly fair,
You as the Winds inconstant are;
I'd bid the gentle Youth adieu,
And freely live and die with You.

ODE X. To Lyce.

Though you were born of Savage Race,
Marry'd in Scythia or in Thrace,
Would you not weep, to see me wait
In Wind and Rain before your Gate?

Hark! What a Noise your Windows make?
Whilst all the Trees around you shake;
The Storms like hollow Thunders sound,
And rattling Hail-stones beat the Ground.

Venus abhors all Female Pride,
Then lay Disdain and Scorn aside;
You from a gentle Off-spring came,
Penelope's no Roman Dame.

If neither Gifts nor Pray'rs can win
Your Heart, whilst we grow pale and pine,
If you neglect your Poet's Vows,
And doat upon a Roving Spouse;

Yet let your Scorn and Rigour end;
Since Snakes grow mild, and Oaks will bend:
A Night, like this, must quickly tame
The warmest Youth, and quench his Flame.

ODE XI. To Mercury.

Great God of Musick, by whose Aid
To list'ning Stones Amphion play'd;
And thou my Lyre, harmonious Shell,
Whose Strings in artful Sounds excel;

Let thy quick Nerves no longer rest,
But grace the Temple and the Feast;
Some am'rous Air or Song begin,
That may at last fair Lyde win.

She, than a Colt, more wild and gay,
Frisks on the Green with wanton Play,
Starts at the Touch, untaught to prove
The active Leap and Force of Love.

You tame the Tygers, charm the Woods,
And stay the Rapid Headlong Floods;
Hell's grizly Porter let you pass,
And fawn'd, and listen'd to your Lays:

The Snakes around his Head grew tame,
His Jaws no longer glow'd with Flame,
Nor triple Tongue was stain'd with Blood;
No more his Breath with Venom flow'd.

Ixion laugh'd, and Tityus smil'd;
The Bellides no longer fill'd
Their streaming Urn, nor toil'd in vain,
But while you sung, forgot their Pain.

Let Lyde, cruel Lyde, know,
The Fate those Virgins find below:
Waters on Waters still they pour;
The leaking Urn still thirsts for more.

Such is the Doom, reserv'd in Hell
For those, by whom their Lovers fell,
When, by a Crime entirely new,
Each Bride the guiltless Bridegroom slew.

But one was found among the rest,
Worthy by Hymen to be blest;
Who by a glorious Cheat did prove
False to her Father, true to Love.

She to her Husband call'd, Arise!
Lest endless Slumbers close your Eyes:
Fly from the Death you can't foresee,
And shun this cruel Family.

My Sisters dip their Hands in Blood,
And rage like Lyons of the Wood;
Whilst I relent with Love and Fear;
I'll neither kill, nor keep you here.

Let me in Chains and Dungeons lie,
Rather than see my Husband die;
Or let my Sire on some far Shore
Expose me to the Savage Moor.

Fly, and be Happy, whilst the Night,
The Winds, and Love, promote your Flight:
When I am dead, my Urn shall tell
The tender Cause for which I fell.

ODE XII. To Neobule.

Unhappy you! Condemn'd to pine,
Without the Joys of Love and Wine;
Whom a rough Guardian's Threats confine.

Yet lovely Hebrus fills your Heart;
For him you shun Minerva's Art,
And change your Needle to a Dart.

No Youth with such a Mien and Grace
Rides at the Ring, or in the Race,
Or when he swims, such Strength displays.

See how he follows through the Grounds
The flying Stag and noisie Hounds,
And gives the Boar the deepest Wounds.

ODE XIII.

Lovely Spring! as Crystal clear!
Accept this Wine, these fragrant Flow'rs;
Soon as the Morning shall appear,
A Goat, with budding Horns, is yours;

Young and Wanton, fit to try
The lusty Leap, or hardy Fight;
His Blood your limpid Streams shall die,
Your Streams, with purple Mixture bright.

From the Dog's-stars scorching Ray
You still defend the tender Flock;
With you the Herds their Thirst allay,
And Oxen, sweating with the Yoke.

Every Spring shall yield to you,
Whilst I the shady Scene rehearse,
The Rocks from whence your Waters flow;
And speak your Murmurs in my Verse.

ODE XIV.

Once, like Alcides, by Success
We found our Toils and Woes increase;
But now fresh Joy revives in Rome,
Since Cæsar comes victorious home.

Chast Livia shall embrace her Spouse,
And pay the Gods her promis'd Vows;
Octavia shall the Victor meet,
With Crowds of Matrons at her Feet.

Ye Youths and Virgins, young and fair,
Whose Safety is great Cæsar's Care,
In Awe and Silence pass the Day,
And grace the Godlike Victor's Way.

This Day I bid adieu to Care!
No Ills I dread, no Dangers fear;
From Violence, and servile Chains,
And Death secure, whilst Cæsar reigns.

Bring me Perfumes, with Garlands crown
My Head, in Wine my Sorrows drown;
Tap the last Hogshead that I have,
And scarce from civil Feuds could save.

Call fair Neæra to the Feast,
In all her wanton Graces drest;
But if her Keeper guard the Gate,
Wait not too-long, nor stay too late.

My Heart grows cool, my Hairs grow gray,
My Strength and am'rous Heat decay;
My Passion scarce had stay'd so long,
When I was wild, and gay, and young.

ODE XV. To Chloris.

For Shame, since you are Old and Poor,
Reform, and give Intriguing o'er;
Your Trade, your Bawdy Function leave,
And to your aged Cuckold cleave:
Resort not to the Young and Fair,
But for your latter end prepare:
From Bawls and Crowds of Beauties fly,
For Stars and Clowds but ill agree.
Young Pholoe may safely do
That which is Impudence in you.
She, with an Air and Grace, can make
A Bacchanal, or Midnight Rake,
Or with her Lover sport and play,
As wanton as a Kid in May;
Whilst with the same resistless Art
She storms his Windows, and his Heart:
But you, the Spindle or the Loom,
And not the Lyre and Dance, become;
No Garlands can your Spring restore,
Nor Hogsheads drain'd abate Threescore.

ODE XVI. To Mæcenas.

Within a brazen Tow'r immur'd,
By Dogs and Centinels secur'd,
From Midnight Revels and Intrigues of Love,
Fair Danae was kept within her Guardian's Pow'r;
But gentle Venus smil'd, and am'rous Jove
Knew, he could soon unlock the Door,
And by his Art successful prove,
Chang'd to a golden Show'r.

For Gold through Rocks and Walls of Brass,
And warlike Guards, can freely pass;
By this, which swift as Lightning makes its way,
The Græcian Augur fell, and his unhappy House;
By this great Philip did his Arms convey
Through hostile Towns, divided Foes:
The Mariner, who stems the Sea,
To Gold's dread Godhead bows.

Black Care attends the Miser's Store,
Care of too much, and Thirst of more.
To you, the Grace of Knighthood, I appeal,
You know, my dear Mæcenas! how I scorn and hate
In gawdy Pomp and Grandeur to excel:
To those contented with their State,
The Gods their choicest Gifts reveal,
Beyond our Wishes great.

Naked I quit the noisie Court,
And to the happy Poor resort.
Few are my Wants, and humble are my Vows,
Blest in my Little All, not Covetous of more:
Not he, who rich Apulia's Acres plows;
Whose Barns with yellow Heaps run o'er,
Such Quiet or such Pleasures knows,
Amidst his Riches, Poor.

Whilst I enjoy a fruitful Year
A certain Crop, and Waters clear,
Let him who o'er the Libyan Empire reigns,
Live an eternal Slave to Fortune's haughty Frowns;
Whilst through my Hive no luscious Hony strains,
No Wine in costly Hogsheads runs,
No golden Fleece on Gallia's Plains,
My Flock with Riches crowns.

Though I am Poor I cannot want,
Since what I ask you freely grant.
The more I still possess, the less I crave;
Nor can Mygdonia's Realm augment my Wealthy Store.
If we repine at what we have,
The Gods will never give us more;
But if, what Life requires, we save,
We never can be Poor.

ODE XVII. To Ælius Lamia.

From Lamus sprung, whose noble Blood
Has fill'd the long Records of Fame;
And on a numerous Race bestow'd
A generous Birth, and deathless Name;

To him your high Descent you owe
Who once possess'd the Formian Tow'rs,
And reign'd where Liris' Waters flow
Along Marica's fruitful Shores;

Lay in your Fuel, for the Crow
Forbodes a Day of Wind and Rain;
To Morrow's stormy Blasts shall strow
The Ground with Leaves, with Weeds the Main:

You and your Houshold, free from Care,
May then indulge your Souls in Wine;
With blazing Piles your Hearth prepare,
And feast upon the tender Swine.

ODE XVIII. To Faunus.

God of the Woods, who loves to chace
The Naïds, nimble as the Wind,
Along my Fields propitious pass,
And to my tender Flocks be kind;

Then every Year a wanton Kid,
With Bowls of Love-inspiring Wine,
Shall to your Sylvan God-head bleed,
Whilst fragrant Smoak perfumes the Shrine.

Soon as December cools the Plains,
My Cattle on soft Herbage browze;
Nor Toil nor Care fatigues the Swains;
The Bullocks from the Team are loose:

No rav'ning Wolves the Lambkins fright;
The Leaves lye scatter'd through the Wood;
The Rusticks in the Dance delight,
And beat the Ground they lately plow'd.

ODE XIX. To Telephus.

You to a Nicety can tell,
When Codrus for his Countrey fell,
How long before him was the Reign
Of Inachus, a mighty Man;

The Race of Æacus you know;
And when the Greeks laid Ilium low:
But never let us know the most,
A Pipe of Chian Wine will cost,
Where and at whose Expence we may
In Drinking pass the Night away,
Melt down the Frost, and warm the Snow,
And make the Wine the Rains out-flow;
These are important Truths indeed:
Come! put about the sprightly Red;
This Glass I drink to Luna bright,
This to the Goddess of the Night,
This to Muræna: Let there be
A Glass for each in Company,
Not more than Nine, nor less than Three.
The Poet his old Toast shall chuse,
We'll bate him not a single Muse;
The Graces dancing Hand in Hand,
But three full Bumpers can Command,
For they are Sober, Chast and Kind,
And not to drunken Frays inclin'd.
Now let us revel in our Wine,
And let the warbling Pipe begin;
The Pipe and Lyre shall both come down,
And Roses the rich Pavement crown;
I hate to have it meanly done.
Let Lycus at next Door, and she
Who ill deserves such Sots as he,
Listen with Envy to the Noise,
And languish to partake our Joys.
Thee, Telephus, whose Golden Hair
And Looks out-shine the Evening Star,
Chloe, just ripe for Man, admires;
Me Glycera's bright Beauty fires.

ODE XX. To Pyrrhus.

Would you a Lover and his Nymph divide!
As well you might attempt a Lyon's Den,
And seize his Whelps, in some wild Forest hid;
You dare not stand the Fight, but must escape unseen.

The Savage She through Crowds of Hunters goes;
Searching for what she loves with curious Eyes;
And only hopes to meet amidst her Foes
You, who avoid her Rage, and should dispute the Prize.

She grinds her Teeth, and glows with Martial Flame;
You aim your pointed Darts with wondrous Skill:
Thus you contend, and thus the jealous Dame;
Nearchus holds the Palm, and gives it where he will.

Proud of his Charms, the gay, the careless Boy
Tosses his fragrant Locks, with such a Look
As Nireus had, or the young Prince of Troy,
Whom Jove, by Passion urg'd, from watry Ida took.

ODE XXI.

You, my good Cask! are of a Date
With Consul Manlius and with me,
Produce your Charge, whate'er it be,
Or Love, or Strife, or loud Debate,
Or gentle Sleep, or Wit serenely Free.

On such a Day, for such a Friend,
With Massick juice our Souls refine,
Whatever Bacchus may design,
Corvinus bids the Stream descend;
Corvinus loves to mix Philosophy and Wine.

Wine kept old Cato's Virtue warm;
This whets the Dull, and Wit inspires;
The Grave with sprightly Vigour fires,
And by a never-failing Charm,
Unlocks the Mind, and all its gay Desires.

Wine with fresh Hope the Coward cheers;
Revives the Wretched and Undone,
And makes the Slave his Lord disown:
What Wretch, when arm'd by Bacchus, fears
To meet a Warrior's Arm, or stand a Tyrant's Frown?

Let Venus, and the God of Wine,
And every Grace, too strictly Chast,
Come, if they please, and crown the Feast:
Our Torches and our Souls shall shine,
Till we outface the Sun, when rising from the East.

ODE XXII. To Diana.

Queen of the Mountains and the Groves!
Whose Hand the Teeming Pain removes;
Whose Aid the Sick and Weak implore,
And thrice invoke thy Threefold Pow'r;

To thee I dedicate the Pine,
That shades my Farm; a tender Swine,
Who whets his Tusks and threatens War,
Shall crown thy Altar once a Year.

ODE XXIII. To Phidyle.

If once a Month to Heav'n you pray
With lifted Hands, and on the Shrine
Your this Year's Fruits and Incense lay,
And sacrifice a greedy Swine;

The Gods from Storms shall save your Vines,
Nor shall your blighted Harvest fail;
And as the sickly Year declines,
Your Children shall be strong and hail.

Let the devoted Herds, that feed
On Algidum o'er-grown with Wood,
Or those from rich Albania, bleed,
And paint the Pontiff's Axe with Blood:

The Gods require no Herds from you,
No rich Oblations, not your own;
Give 'em, what from a Swain is due,
A Rosemary or Myrtle Crown.

Bring but a little homely Cake,
With Hands that know no guilty Stain,
The Gods that humble Gift will take,
When Hecatombs are kill'd in vain.

ODE XXIV.

Though you could boast the Yellow Stores
That deck Arabia's happy Shores,
Or all the Wealth the Indies yield:
Or such amazing Structures build,
As might with equal Grandeur grace
The Tuscan and Apulian Seas;
Yet when relentless Fate commands,
And reaches out her Iron Hands,
You must submit; for who can save
His Life from Sorrow and the Grave?
How happily the Scythians roam,
Whose very Houses stray from Home!
Happy the Getes! who know no Bounds,
But as they please enlarge their Grounds;

The Fruits they yield, the Corn they bear,
Cost but the Labour of one Year;
For every Farmer takes his place,
And as one works, the other plays.
With them no Poyson kills the Child,
By some inhumane Step-dame fill'd;
No Wife confiding in her Dow'r,
Usurps her Husband's lawful Pow'r;
Or to her smooth-fac'd Lover flies,
And all her Cuckold's Rage defies:
A rigorous Virtue, spotless Name,
Rich in their great Fore-father's Fame,
A Mind that's Chast, unstain'd with Lust,
Is all the Fortune which they boast;
They with Content and Joy can die,
Rather than live with Infamy.
Where shall we find the generous Man,
Who can our Civil Feuds restrain,
Or purge a guilty Age from Vice?
A Statue to his Name shall rise:
Him late succeeding Ages shall
The Father of his Countrey call.
Mankind, alas! too seldom give
The Palm to Virtue when alive;
But as the Goddess mounts the Skies,
We wish, and gaze with longing Eyes.
Yet can we of the Age complain;
Since Justice wears the Sword in vain,
Whilst Law's asleep, and vice does reign?
The Clime that feels the scorching Sun,
The Northern Isles, and frozen Zone,
Can't fright the Merchant from the Sea,
Through which he cuts his Liquid Way.
The Dread of Want, and Love of Gain,
Inure Mankind to Toil and Pain;
Want is the worst Disgrace we fear;
Hence we submit to Grief and Care,
With Vigour act, with Patience bear.
When the Blind God is all our Guide,
From Virtue's Paths we tread aside.

Then to the Capitol let's bring,
Where Crowds attend and Clamours ring,
Our Wealth, whence all our Troubles spring;
Or let the Seas deep Womb devour
Our sparkling Gems, and useless Oar:
True Penitents maturely wise,
Purge out the gross Remains of Vice;
Their loose Desires and Passions kill,
And crush the Seeds of growing Ill;
By Virtue's Dictates train the Mind,
To rigid Laws and Rules confin'd.
The Youth, by soft Indulgence bred,
Who cannot sit the manag'd Steed,
Avoids the Barrier and the Race,
And shuns the Fields and active Chace;
But plays at Tennis or at Dice,
And all the Penal Laws defies:
The Father saves, for him to spend,
And cheats his Partner or his Friend;
Can break a Promise, or forswear
A Contract, to enrich his Heir.
The Miser, though of Wealth possest,
Wants something still to crown the rest;
And never is compleatly blest.

ODE XXV. To Bacchus.

God of Wine, resistless Pow'r!
Whither will you hurry me,
Full of the Deity,
Transported with a Rage unfelt before?
Whither, whither must I rove!
To what wild Cave, what distant Grove?
Where sing of Cæsar's high Renown,
His deathless Glory, starry Crown?
How with assembled Gods above
He sits majestick down,

And dictates sage Advice to Jove?
Give me a Theme that's great and new,
Untouch'd by any other Muse.
See! see! through Hills and Tracts of Snow
The Bacchanal distracted strays,
Whilst all the God her Frenzy does infuse;
How wild she looks! How swiftly she surveys
Hebrus, and Rhodope, and Thrace!
Thus mad, thus wild,
Through Woods and Shores I'd pass,
With Rage and Wonder fill'd.
God of the Virgin frantick Train!
Whose Hands the thrilling Jav'lin throw;
I scorn what's human, mean, and low,
Nor will attempt a mortal Strain:
All other Pleasures I forgoe,
Nor any Danger fear,
To follow such a God as you,
Who on your God-like Brow the cluster'd Garland wear.

ODE XXVI. To Venus.

Once I was fam'd in Cupid's War,
And could oblige and serve the Fair;
But now before this Shrine I've hung
My useless Arms, and Lyre unstrung.

Close by the Sea-born Queen I throw
My smoaking Torch, and flagging Bow,
And the rough Club which once I bore,
To force a haughty Damsel's Door.

O Goddess of the Cyprian Grove,
And sunny Memphis, Queen of Love!
Hear my last Pray'r, and aim a Dart
At Chloe's proud disdainful Heart.

ODE XXVII. To Galatea.

Let the ill-boding noisie Jay
Salute the Guilty on their Way;
Let Foxes as they pass along,
And Wolves accost them, big with Young.

Let Snakes, as swift as Arrows, thwart
The Road, and make their Horses start;
But you no Guilt no Danger know,
Why should I be concern'd for you?

I'll summon from the Eastern Skies
The Crow, e'er to the Fenns he flies;
And bid him change his croaking Strain,
And not forbode or Wind or Rain.

May Galatea happy be,
And kindly still remember me:
May no rude Pye, or luckless Crow,
Bode ill Success, where'er you go.

But see! Orion's setting Star
Portends a mighty Tempest near;
Too well the raging Seas I know,
And what the adverse Winds can do.

May those I hate ascend their Ship,
When Southern Blasts infest the Deep,
When gloomy Waves begin to roar,
And dash against the trembling Shore.

When on the Bull Europa rode,
Not knowing that she prest a God,
Breathless and pale the Dame survey'd
The Main, where rolling Monsters play'd.

Lately she rang'd the flowry Mead,
And weav'd new Garlands for the Head;
Now all the Scene that greets her Eyes,
Is boundless Seas, and starry Skies.

Arriv'd upon the Cretan Coast,
Whose Shores a hundred Cities boast,
Mad with Despair, she cry'd, Adieu
My Father, and my Virtue too!

Where am I? wretched and undone!
And can a single Death atone.
The loss of Honour and of Shame?
Or am I pure, and this a Dream?

It is a vain Delusion sent
From Hell, and I still Innocent?
Could I the Meads and Flow'rs forsake,
To swim upon a Monster's Back?

Had I that Bull this Moment here,
His Flesh I could to pieces tear,
And break his Horns, by Rage inspir'd;
And spoil the Form I once admir'd.

Thus from my Father's Realm I fly!
Dare to do Ill, but dare not die!
Hear me, some kind propitious Pow'r,
Let some wild Beast this Wretch devour.

Expose my lovely Form a Prey
To Tygers, as they range this Way,
When Hunger prompts them to their Food,
E'er they have stain'd their Jaws with Blood.

Make haste to die, unhappy Maid!
Thy Father will thy Crimes upbraid;
This Girdle and yon bending Tree
Will soon conclude thy Destiny.

Or from these Rocks rush headlong down,
And in the raging Ocean drown;
Your self from Shame and Bondage save,
How can a Princess be a Slave?

Venus and Cupid, as the Dame
Thus mourn'd, to her Assistance came;
The Boy his Bow unbent, the Queen
Of Beauty all in Smiles was seen.

A while she rally'd with the Fair;
Then thus at last, fond Maid forbear
Thy Rage, and give thy Passion o'er;
This hated Bull is in thy Pow'r.

Forget thy Sighs, and think of Love;
'Tis great to be the Wife of Jove:
The World's best Part shall speak thy Fame,
And be distinguish'd by thy Name.

ODE XXVIII. To Lyde.

With Mirth and Joy unbend thy Soul,
And for the Hogshead call;
With rich Cæcubian fill the Bowl,
For this is Neptune's Festival.

From Bibulus we date the Juice,
Which now should crown the Glass;
Without delay that Cask produce,
For see, the Day declines apace.

I'll sing of Neptune, and his Train
Of Nymphs with Sea green Hair;
You to Latona's Praise shall strain
The Lyre, and to Diana fair.

We'll sing of Venus and her Doves,
With which she wings her Flight
To Cnidos and the Paphian Groves,
And praise the Goddess of the Night.

ODE XXIX. To Mæcenas.

Descended from the Royal Blood
Of Kings, to whom Etruria bow'd,
For you my Rosie Garlands I prepare,
And pour my Wine upon a happy Day;
These Ointments shall perfume your Hair;
Come to your Friend without delay:
Leave Æscula and Tibur's cold Recess;
Come taste for once the Sweets of Privacy and Ease.

Forsake a while your gawdy Seat,
And the Fatigue of being Great;
Fly the Amusements of the smoaky Town,
Where Noise, and Wealth, and Trade, consume each Hour;
Try the blest Change, and quit your Gown
To share the Pleasures of the Poor;
There free from Pomp and Equipage, carouse,
Unlade your Mind of Business, and unbend your Brows.

Already Cepheus mounts the Sky,
And scorching Procyon rages high;
Mad Leo sheds around his pointed Fire,
And beamy Phœbus fries the burning Plains;
The Flocks to Shades and Streams retire;
The Flocks, and Herds, and sweating Swains,
All follow great Sylvanus to the Groves,
Whilst not a Breeze of Air the quivering Branches moves.

You to the Publick Good apply
Your Thoughts, intent on Policy:

Fain you would know, where Cyrus threatens War,
Or what intestine Broils the Getes destroy,
And what the Seres: but forbear
The vain Enquiry, and enjoy
The present Hour: The Gods from human Sight
Hide the Events of Fate in Everlasting Night.

All worldly Things, like Waters flow,
Sometimes too high, sometimes too low:
Sometimes the even Current gently glides
Down to the Deep, and oft with mighty Roar
Bears Rocks upon its swelling Tides,
Sweeps Herds and Houses from the Shore
And Trunks of Trees; the Rivers quit their Bounds,
Whilst every lofty Hill and neighb'ring Wood resounds.

Happy the Mortal, who can say,
'Tis well, for I have liv'd to Day;
To morrow let black Clouds and Storms arise,
Or let the Sun exert his beamy Pow'r:
Nothing can interrupt my Bliss;
I seiz'd, and have enjoy'd my Hour:
The Gods themselves, howe'er they smile or frown,
Cannot recall what's past; for that is all my own.

Fortune, the wanton fickle Dame,
Plays on, and cheats us in the Game:
Now gives, and the next Moment takes away;
From me to you transfers th' uncertain Crown:
I court her when dispos'd to stay;
But if she threatens to be gone,
Thus with a Breath I toss her to the Wind!
And still in Virtue's Arms a kindly Shelter find.

'Tis not for me to wish in vain,
When Storms grow loud upon the Main,
Or importune the Gods with needless Pray'rs,
Lest Neptune should enrich the greedy Tide
With Cyprian or with Tyrian Wares;
I in my little Bark can ride,

And to the wish'd-for Shore securely row,
Whilst Stars propitious shine, and gentle Breezes blow.

ODE XXX.

To my own Name this Monument I raise,
High as the Pyramids, and strong as Brass;
Which neither Storms nor Tempests shall deface:

This shall remain, whilst Time glides nimbly by;
And the swift Years in measur'd Stages fly,
For I'll not perish, not entirely die.

My Fame, my better Half, shall never end,
Whilst Mitred Priests before the Altar bend,
And Vestal Nymphs the Capitol ascend.

Where Aufidus with rapid Fury flows,
And Daunus heretofore his Dwelling chose,
And from a low Estate to Empire rose:

The distant Race of Latins shall admire
Me the first Bard, who urg'd with Sacred Fire,
Tun'd a Greek Measure to a Roman Lyre.

Be bold, my Muse! to claim the just Renown,
Thy Merits and Immortal Lays have won;
And deck thy Poet with a Laurel Crown.

The End of the Third Book of ODES.

BOOK IV.

ODE I. To Venus.

Affter a long and lasting Peace,
Venus once more disturbs my Ease;
And yet my former Vigour's lost,
When lovely Cinara engross'd
All Hearts, and was the Reiging Toast.

Relentless Queen of soft Desires!
O spare me and asswage my Fires;
I'm old and stiff, and cannot bear
Your Yoke; hence to the Young and Fair,
Your better Votaries, repair.

Go with your Chariot and your Doves,
And all your little wanton Loves
To Paulus, with high Vigour blest;
Go to his gentle am'rous Breast,
Fit to receive so warm a Guest:

For he is Noble, Gay and Young,
And has a sweet, enchanting Tongue;
By him your Empire will increase,
For he's a Master of Address,
And has a thousand Arts to please.

A Marble Statue for his Sake
Shall glitter near th' Albanian Lake,
When by your Aid the happy Man
Can triumph in a Rival's Pain,
And laugh to see him bribe in vain.

There Incense, ever fresh and sweet,
Your Nostrils with Perfumes shall greet;
The Pipe its warbling Voice shall raise,
The Pipe and Lyre begin their Lays,
And join in Consort to your Praise.

Our Youth and Virgins twice a Day
Shall revel there, and sport and play;
Their snowy Feet shall nimbly bound,
Whilst hand in hand they beat the Ground,
And put the Salick Measure round.

Whilst I, unfit for am'rous Joys,
Alike neglect the Nymphs and Boys;
No Garlands round my Temples bend,
Nor can I with my Jovial Friend
In Laughing Bumpers long contend.

Yet tell me, Ligurinus, tell,
Why do these Tears thus gently steal
Along my Cheeks with Sorrow drown'd?

Why are my Lips thus fault'ring found,
With an imperfect broken Sound?

Thee in my Dreams each Night I chace,
Thee oft with eager Arms embrace;
As o'er the dusty Plains you stray,
Or in the flowing Waters play,
Ah, Youth! more swift, more false than they.

ODE II. To Antonius Julus.

He, who to Pindar's Flights would rise,
With Pinions not his own,
Like Icarus attempts the Skies,
And soon shall tumble down.

Pindar's a mighty raging Flood,
That from some Mountain flows,
Rapid, and warm, and deep, and loud,
Whose Force no Limits knows.

To him Apollo yields the Bays,
When proud of Liberty,
In loose unmeasur'd Strains he plays,
From slavish Numbers free.

Whether in lofty Verse he sing
Some celebrated Name;
Some mighty God, or Godlike King,
Who could a Monster tame;

Or chant th' Olympick Victor's Fame,
In everlasting Lays;
And give him a more Deathless Name,
Than Sculpture's Self can raise.

Or whether he lament some Youth
Agreeable and brave;
Proclaim his Courage and his Truth,
And snatch him from the Grave.

He, wrapt in Æther, like the Swan,
Aspiring soars on High;
I, like the Bee, just skim the Plain,
And round the Meadows fly.

From Tibur's Groves and watry Shore,
With never-ceasing Pains
I cull the Sweets of every Flow'r,
And form my labour'd Strains.

Of Cæsar's Triumphs you shall sing,
That grace the Sacred Way;
And praise him on a nobler String,
Who made the Gaul obey.

Cæsar's the greatest Good below,
The Gods themselves could give;
The Pow'rs no greater could bestow,
Should Saturn's Age revive.

Do you rehearse the publick Joys,
On lofty Pinions borne,
The Forum free from Strife and Noise,
At Cæsar's safe Return.

If then my humble Lays prevail
Amidst the Voice of Rome,
I'll cry, O happy Sun! all Hail!
Who bring'st great Cæsar home.

Let Iö, Iö, ring around,
As Cæsar moves along;
Let Incense smoak, and Iö sound,
The universal Song.

Ten brawny Bulls must bleed for you,
As many lowing Cows;
A wanton Heifer is my Due,
Reserv'd to crown my Vows:

Like the New-Moon her bended Horns
In even Spaces shine;
A Milk-white Star her Head adorns,
And marks the yellow Skin.

ODE III. To Melpomene.

The Youth, whose Birth the kindly Muse
With an indulgent Aspect views,
Shall neither at the Barrier shine,
Nor the Olympick Garland win,
Nor drive the Chariot o'er the Plain,
Nor guide with Skill the flowing Rein;
No Laurel Wreaths for Battels won,
Shall the triumphant Victor crown,
When to the Capitol he leads,
And on the Necks of Monarchs treads;
But Tibur's Streams and verdant Glades,
The limpid Spring, and gloomy Shades,
Shall fill his never-dying Lays,
And crown him with immortal Praise.
Amidst her other vocal Sons,
Me Rome, the Prince of Cities, owns
A Master of the tuneful Lyre,
And seats me in Apollo's Quire.
The vulgar Criticks I disdain,
And Envy grinds her Teeth in vain.
O Goddess of the golden Shell!
Whose Hands in artful Notes excel;
Mute Fishes, when inspir'd by Thee,
Can mate the Swan in Harmony:

To thee my Fame and Praise I owe,
When pointing Crowds, where-e'er I go,
Gaze and admire, and cry, That's He!
The Prince of Lyrick Poetry!
For (if I please) I please by Thee.

ODE IV.

The Royal Bird to whom the King of Heav'n,
The Empire of the feather'd Race has giv'n,
For Services already done,
The Rape of Priam's Son,
With high paternal Virtues fill'd,
Tho' Young, and from the Nest unskill'd,
His first Attempt with trembling Pinions tries,
Then down the sweeping Wind with rapid Swiftness flies,
And midst the frighted Lambkins bears away,
With mighty Force, his trembling Prey;
Or dips his Beak in Serpent's Blood,
Eager of Battel and of Food.

The Lion, Prince of Brutes, his Dam forsakes,
And through the shaggy Herd, wild Slaughter makes,
Chacing some Goat along the Plain,
That flies, but flies in vain;
Such Drusus did in Arms appear,
When near the Alps he urg'd the War:
In vain the Rhæti did their Axes wield,
Like Amazons they fought, like Women fled the Field:
But why those savage Troops this Weapon chuse,
Confirm'd by long establish'd Use,
Historians would in vain disclose:
For who of Men all Secrets knows?

At length, when crush'd by the young Warriour's Hand,
They knew, what Heroes, under Cæsar train'd,
Could do; to whom the Sire bequeaths
His Soul; in whom he breaths:
The royal Bird of mighty Jove,
Never brings forth a tim'rous Dove:

To valiant Fathers, valiant Sons succeed;
Thus Bulls from Bulls descend, and martial Horses breed.
Yet the best Blood by Learning is refin'd,
And Virtue arms the solid Mind;
Whilst Vice will stain the noblest Race,
And the paternal Stamp efface.

Metaurum's bloody Waves and Banks shall tell,
How Asdrubal by Roman Valour fell,
What Rome to Nero's Offspring owes:
A nobler Son arose,
Smiling with Triumph, on that Day,
Which chac'd our Clouds and Foes away;
Who, like a Flame, all Italy o'er-ran,
Swift as the Eastern Wind that skims along the Main.
'Twas then the Pow'rs above began to bless
Our Troops with Conquest and Success;
The Gods, by impious Hands defac'd,
Once more erect, their Altars grac'd.

At last perfidious Hannibal thus spoke:
We, like the Stag, the brinded Wolf provoke;
And when Retreat is Victory,
Rush on, tho' sure to die.
When Troy was sack'd, this People came
Thro' Tuscan Seas, and Grecian Flame;
Their Gods, their Parents, and their Children bore
From Ilium's ruin'd Walls to the Ausonian Shore:
Now, like an Oak on some cold Mountain's Brow,
At every Wound they sprout and grow;
The Ax and Sword new Vigour give,
And by their Ruins they revive.

Thus Hercules for matchless Valour fam'd,
With fruitless Blows the fertile Hydra tam'd;
For as one Head the Hero slew,
The Monster spawn'd a-new;
And thus the Dragon's Teeth, when sown,
Were to a Martial Harvest grown.

100

If to the Seas you trust this happy Race,
They gather Strength, and Pow'r, and Riches from the Seas.
If to the Field their warlike Troops they lead,
They fill their Foes with Awe and Dread:
Their Matrons sing their warlike Feats,
And every Tongue their Fame repeats.

No more the Herald shall to Carthage bear
The happy Tidings of Success in War:
Farewel to Fortune and Renown,
For all our Hopes are gone;
With Asdrubal my Honour dy'd,
And Carthage perish'd by his Side.
The Roman Youth may march triumphant on,
For with auspicious Smiles the Gods their Drusus crown;
Great Jove still condescends to bless his Arms,
And saves him from impending Harms:
With Conduct far above his Years
The Toils of War and Camps he bears.

ODE V. To Augustus.

Guardian of Rome, from Heroes sprung!
Why must you be abroad so long?
The Senate for your Absence mourns:
Cæsar's unjust till he returns.

Ah! quickly come, and with you bring
A brighter Sun, a brighter Spring:
Plenty and Mirth with you appear,
The World looks gay, when you are here.

As a fond Mother for her Son,
When out at Sea, begins her Moan,
Whom the rough Winds and stormy Main
Beyond his promis'd Year detain;

101

For him she wishes, longs and prays,
And full of Hope the Shore surveys:
With the same eager, fond Desires,
His Rome her absent Lord requires.

When Cæsar's here, our Flocks are safe,
Our Fields with Plenty smile and laugh;
No Tempests on the Ocean roar,
No Treachery infests the Shore.

No Rapes invade the Chaste and Good,
Whilst Vice by Justice is subdu'd;
Paternal Virtues grace our Sons,
And Vengeance every Crime atones.

Who dreads the Gete, or Parthian Foe,
Or Germans terrible in Show,
Or all the warlike Pow'rs of Spain,
Whilst Cæsar does in Safety reign?

Each Roman Swain securely joins
The widow'd Elms, and curling Vines;
There drinks all Day, with Plenty bless'd;
The Gods and Cæsar crown the Feast.

To him our Wine and Vows we pour;
Him with our Lares we adore:
No Greeks with greater Zeal proclaim
Their Hercules, or Castor's Name.

Return, Great Cæsar, and bring home
A lasting Festival to Rome:
Thee, Drunk and Sober, Night and Day,
Thee we invoke, to Thee we pray.

102

ODE VI. To Apollo.

By Thee, great God! for Lust and Pride,
Fam'd Niobe and Tityos dy'd;
Achilles to thy Valour bow'd,
E'er Troy was by his Arms subdu'd:

Born of the Goddess of the Sea,
He found no Match in Arms, but Thee;
Troy's Walls oft trembled at his Spear,
And every Trojan Heart with Fear:

Yet like a Pine he tumbled down,
Or Cypress by a Storm o'erthrown;
And lay extended on the Plain,
In Phrygian Dust by Phœbus slain:

He scorn'd all Arts but open Force,
A holy Cheat, or treacherous Horse;
Nor would by any false Disguise,
Amidst their Mirth, his Foes surprize;

But met the Trojans in the Field,
And there without Distinction kill'd:
With Fire and Sword pursu'd them home,
And burnt the Infant in the Womb.

At length to Venus and to Thee,
Jove stoop'd, and fix'd the firm Decree,
Æneas with a better Fate
Should found a greater nobler State.

Sweet Master of the tuneful Nine!
Whose Locks, when wash'd in Xanthus, shine;
To Me and my Apulian Muse,
No Aid, nor Guardian Care refuse.

103

For You to me my Fame impart,
My Genius, and my vocal Art:
The Nymphs and Youths from Nobles sprung,
With Raptures, listen to my Song.

Them chaste Diana guards, and loves
More than the Bow, the Chace, and Groves;
And they shall favour and admire
My suppliant Strains, and tuneful Lyre.

They shall extol Latona's Son,
And praise the bright increasing Moon;
By whom the Months their Courses steer,
And Fruits adorn the smiling Year.

The young Imperial Bride shall say;
I sung a solemn Ode to day
By Horace made, a famous Bard;
My Song the Gods with Pleasure heard.

ODE VII. To Torquatus.

The Spring dissolves the fleecy Snows;
Fresh Green adorns the Fields, fresh Leaves the Boughs:
Nature is deck'd in all her gayest Pride;
The limpid Streams in narrow Chanels glide:
The Nymphs trip naked o'er the Plains,
And with 'em hand in hand, the Graces dance.
The rolling Hours, and shifting Year
Inform you, that your last great Change is near;
Warm Zephyr melts the Winter down,
Then Spring succeeds, and Summer's quickly gone;
Then Autumn, rich in Fruits and Grain,
Rolls regular, till Winter comes again.
The Moon renews her fading Light,
Whilst Man lies down in everlasting Night:
We moulder into Dust and Clay,
Where Tullus, Ancus, and Æneas lay.

104

Who can insure To-morrow's Sun?
Or give another Day, when this is done?
Be free and chearful; do not spare
Your Wealth, to glut an undeserving Heir:
When to the Shades below you come,
And Minos fixes your eternal Doom,
Not Virtue, nor High Birth shall save,
Nor Eloquence redeem you from the Grave:
Diana try'd to bring, in vain,
Her chaste Hippolytus to Life again;
Though Theseus did to Hell descend,
He could not rescue his unhappy Friend.

ODE VIII. To Censorinus.

If I with Scopas' Art could raise
A God or Man, in Stone or Brass,
Or to Parrhasian Colours give
A human Face, and bid it live;
There's not a Friend, who shares my Soul,
Should want a Statue, or a Bowl,
Or Tripod of a pond'rous Size,
Rich as some antick Grecian Prize:
To You my noblest Gifts I'd send,
To You, my best my dearest Friend:
But no such vulgar Arts as these,
Or Presents, Me or You can please;
In Lyrick Numbers I excel,
This is the Art you love so well:
For You a Poem I design;
You know the Value of each Line.
Not Statues, in which Heroes breathe,
And stand secure from Time and Death,
Nor he, who paints the bloody Field,
With Scenes of Rout and Slaughter fill'd,
Where Hannibal's less haughty Mien,
And Carthage all in Flames is seen,

105

Can add more Worth to Scipio's Name,
Than when the Muses sing his Fame.
If Poetry her Aid denies,
All Merit unrewarded dies.
Had Romulus, from Ilia sprung,
Perish'd, forgotten, and unsung;
Who of his Race could tell the Name,
From whence the Roman Empire came?
The Muses, by superiour Pow'r,
Redeem'd from Pluto's gloomy Shore
Great Æacus, with Glory crown'd,
And through a thousand Isles renown'd.
Whilst Bards can sing no Hero dies,
They lift the Virtuous to the Skies:
Thus Hercules now sits above
Among the Gods, and drinks with Jove;
Fair Leda's Sons are chang'd to Stars,
Propitious to the Mariners;
Bacchus with Vine-Leaves crowns his Brows,
And hears the Suppliant's humble Vows.

ODE IX. To Lollius.

The Songs which to the Roman Lyre,
Whilst Aufidus ran list'ning by,
I tun'd, inspir'd with Sacred Fire,
Believe me, Friend! shall never die.

Though Homer claims the highest Place,
Yet Laurel springs on Pindar's Head.
The World admires Alcæus' Lays,
And grave Stesichorus is read.

Time cannot raze Anacreon's Name,
Nor prey upon his youthful Strains;
Sweet Sappho of Love's gentle Flame
In never-dying Verse complains.

106

Helen was not the only Fair,
Who in her Passion met her Fate,
Fond of her Lover's Face and Hair,
His Grandeur, Equipage and State.

Brave Sthenelus and Merion's Son
Were not the first renown'd in War;
The Trojans wag'd more Wars than one,
E'er Teucer could a Quiver bear.

The ancient Heroes, in their Turn,
Could for their Wives and Country fight,
Before Deiphobus was born,
And valiant Hector saw the Light.

Older than Agamemnon's Reign
Liv'd Monarchs of a mighty Name;
Of whom no Footsteps now remain,
For want of Bards to sing their Fame.

Virtue's an idle useless Thing,
When hid in secret, and o'ercast;
Whilst I, my Friend! your Praise can sing,
Your Actions shall for ever last.

Oblivion shall not reach your Fame;
For you by prudent Measures steer;
In every Fortune still the same,
Not flush'd with Joy, nor sunk with Fear.

You ever Faithful, Just and True,
From Bribes and Avarice are clear;
Oppression stands in awe of You;
You should be Consul every Year.

Vice, when adorn'd with Wealth and State,
With you no Favour is allow'd;
Your Judgment's Right, and sure as Fate;
You triumph o'er the giddy Crowd.

107

He is not number'd with the Bless'd,
To whom the Gods large Stores have giv'n,
But He, who of enough possess'd,
Can wisely use the Gifts of Heav'n:

Who Fortune's Frowns with Patience bears,
And the worst Ills the Gods can send;
His Honour to his Life prefers,
To save his Country or his Friend.

ODE X. Ligurinus.

Lovely Boy! as Venus fair,
Cruel Boy! as false as Air;
When with hoary Honours dy'd,
Age shall triumph o'er your Pride,
When your Locks their Beauties lose,
And your Cheeks the fading Rose;
Then, when all your Bloom is gone,
Scarce you'll think your Face your own:
But, with Wonder and Amaze,
Fixing on the faithful Glass,
Thus exclaim; Ah! tell me why,
Love must live, and Beauty die?
Why, when Youth adorn'd my Brow,
Was I not as Kind as now?
Or, since Age has banish'd Scorn,
Why should not my Charms return?

ODE XI. To Phyllis.

Phyllis , this aged Cask is thine,
Replete with rich Albanian Wine;
Much Parsley in my Garden grows,
And Ivy to adorn your Brows.

108

My Rooms with burnish'd Plate shall shine,
My Garlands round your Temples twine;
Fresh Greens upon the Shrine shall lie,
And there the tender Lamb shall die.

See in what Hurry, with what Care,
My Slaves, the solemn Feast prepare!
The Flames with Rolls of Smoak arise,
And blacken with new Clouds the Skies.

Think what this Mirth, these Transports mean;
The happy Ides come round agen:
This Day the smiling Month divides,
O'er which the Queen of Loves presides.

This Day with solemn Joy I crown,
A Day much brighter than my Own;
From whence the dearest Man on Earth,
Mecænas, dates his noble Birth.

But you with fond Desire pursue
A Youth, too Great, too Rich for you;
Who by superiour Charms subdu'd,
Doats on a Fortune and a Prude.

Let the rash Youth, who dar'd to try
The winged Horse, and soar'd too high,
And Phaëthon consum'd with Fire,
Timely forewarn you to aspire.

Let not Ambition soar too high,
But let your Hopes with Sense comply;
By Rules of just Decorum move;
Equality's the Soul of Love.

You are my only Joy, for you
I bid all other Nymphs, adieu:
Come, ease my Soul with Musick's Charms,
Musick the sharpest Grief disarms.

109

ODE XII. To Virgil.

Zephyr , Companion of the Spring,
Now smooths the Seas, and swells the Sail;
As o'er the Meads he spreads his Wing,
The Snows dissolve at every Gale.

Progne, a poor unhappy Name,
Begins to build her Nest, and sing
How she reveng'd a guilty Flame,
And punish'd an incestuous King.

Their tender Flocks the Shepherds keep,
And tune the Pipe to rural Strains;
They sing the God who guards their Sheep,
The God who o'er Arcadia reigns.

Come, leave the Noble, Rich, and Gay,
The Season's hot, and calls for Wine:
Bring your Perfumes, and come away,
A Hogshead, on these Terms, is thine.

Your little Box of Odours buys
A certain Remedy for Care;
You know the Cellar where it lies,
'Twill quicken Hope, and kill Despair.

Come, with the Purchase in your Hand,
The Price is small, the Bargain great:
You know I boast no Wealth nor Land,
How then can I afford to treat?

Fly, and leave Sorrow far behind,
Consider Death is at your Feet:
With Mirth and Wine unbend your Mind;
A Frolick, if well tim'd, is sweet.

110

ODE XIII. To Lyce.

Lyce , at length my Pray'rs prevail,
And you grow old, decay'd and stale;
Yet still to Youth and Love pretend,
And drink, and wanton without End.

Your Voice is crack'd and cannot charm,
Or keep a drunken Lover warm;
For Love takes wing and seeks the Young,
The blooming Cheek, and silver Tongue.

He basks in brighter, warmer Eyes,
Your fading wither'd Beauty flies,
Your yellow Teeth, and wrinkled Brow,
Where Time has shed his hoary Snow.

Though in rich Gems, and Silks you dress,
And study all the Arts to please;
The faithful Annals will bely
Your poor affected Gallantry.

Where is that Bloom, that Beauty gone,
That Mien, which made all Hearts your own?
That Grace, that did my Soul betray,
And stole me from myself away?

No Nymph, but Cynara, could shew
A Face, a Shape, an Air like you;
But Cynara, in all her Pride
Of Beauty, and of Conquest, dy'd:

You, by Old Age, the Fates beguile;
The laughing Youths look on and smile,
To see the Torch in Smoak expire,
That once set every Breast on Fire.

111

ODE XIV. To Augustus.

Can sounding Titles, or can solemn Days
Secure the never-dying Praise?
How shall the State preserve thy Fame,
And eternize thy high Renown,
Thou greatest Prince, and brightest Name,
That ever rival'd the less glorious Sun?
The distant Alps have felt thy Pow'r in War,
And Lands that ne'er till now a Roman Yoke could bear.

Young Drusus did thy conqu'ring Squadrons lead,
And fill'd the Savage World with Dread:
How many Fields and Towns he won?
Whilst the high Alps thy Thunders shook,
Tiberius drove as bravely on;
Through Foes untam'd the Victor broke:
To him in Chains the vanquish'd Rhæti bow'd,
Whose white discolour'd Hills were stain'd with native Blood.

Like Mars, the Conqueror in Arms appear'd;
No Death he shunn'd, no Danger fear'd:
So much his Soul his Arms out-flies,
Destruction hardly could keep pace;
Thus when the Pleiades arise,
The Tempest scours along the Seas.
The Troops gave way where'er young Cæsar rod,
Whilst on the flying Crowd, and slaughter'd Heaps he trod.

As Ausidus, when rais'd with sudden Rains,
Rolls swiftly thro' Apulia's Plains,
And proudly threatens, as he flows,
The Banks and subject Meads to drown;

112

So Claudius rushes on his Foes,
And mows the Iron Harvest down:
Thousands and Thousands fall on ev'ry Side;
Himself is all the War, whilst not a Roman dy'd.

But with your Conduct and your Troops he fought,
You to the Field your Omens brought;
For on the same successful Day,
As thrice three Years their Course had run,
Young Cæsar bore the Prize away,
And Fortune did her Fav'rite crown,
When captive Alexandria's open Port
Smooth'd your auspicious Way to Cleopatra's Court.

The warlike Thracian, never tam'd till now,
And Scythian to thy Arms shall bow;
Tigris and Ister own thy Pow'r,
And Nile who hides his watry Head;
Thy Terrors reach the Indian Shore,
Thy Empire stretches to the Mede:
The World's wide Confines with a suppliant Knee
Stoop to Imperial Rome, Imperial Rome to thee.

The British Seas grow calm beneath thy Sway,
Where rolling Monsters on the Billows play:
The haughty Gaul, untaught to fear,
With those of Germany and Spain,
Thy gentle Yoke with Patience bear,
With Pleasure wear the Roman Chain:
All drop their Arms, obsequious to thy Nod,
And where they felt the Victor, now confess the God.

113

ODE XV.

When to some lofty Theme I would aspire,
Apollo chid me, and unstrung my Lyre;
No more I launch into the Depths of Verse,
Nor Fights nor conquer'd Towns rehearse.
Cæsar, thy happy Reign
Has brought fair Plenty back again;
Once more the Ensigns of our State adorn
The sacred Shrine of Jove, from Parthian Temples torn.

Janus has shut his brazen Portals close,
Whilst Justice triumphs o'er her guilty Foes:
No Crimes infest the Age, but conscious Vice
From the avenging Goddess flies;
Whilst all the Arts revive,
And to the State new Vigour give:
These did the Latian Name and Praise convey
From bright Aurora's Dawn to the last Stage of Day.

Whilst Cæsar is the Lord of humane Race,
No Broils shall interrupt our Halcyon Days;
No Civil Strife the hostile Sword unsheath,
Or shed abroad her poys'nous Breath.
The Gete, and sunny Moor,
And they who till the Danube's Shore,
Shall all submit to Rome's imperial Sway;
The Indian and the Mede the Julian Laws obey.

Whether the Day be sacred or prophane,
We, and our Matrons, and our youthful Train,
Will crowd the Altars, with our Presents crown'd,
And put our Vows and Goblets round;

114

There tune the Pipe, and sing
The mighty Names from whence we spring;
Venus, Anchises, and the Trojan Race,
Who gave our noblest Blood, shall take our loudest Praise.

The End of the Fourth Book of ODES.

University of Virginia Library

THE ODES OF HORACE.

BOOK I.

ODE I. To Mæcenas.

ODE II. To Augustus.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

ODE III.

ODE IV. To Sestius.

ODE V. To Pyrrha.

ODE VI. To Agrippa.

ODE VII. To Munatius Plancus.

ODE VIII. To Lydia.

ODE IX. To Thaliarchus.

ODE X. To Mercury.

ODE XI. To Leuconoe.

ODE XII. To Augustus.

ODE XIII. To Lydia.

ODE XIV.

ODE XV.

ODE XVI. To his Mistress.

ODE XVII. To Tyndaris.

ODE XVIII. To Quintilius Varus.

ODE XIX.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

ODE XXI.

ODE XXII. To Aristius.

ODE XXIII. To Chloe.

ODE XXIV. To Virgil.

ODE XXV. To Lydia.

ODE XXVI. To his Muse.

ODE XXVII.

ODE XXVIII.

ODE XXIX. To Iccius.

ODE XXX. To Venus.

ODE XXXI. To Apollo.

ODE XXXII. To his Harp.

ODE XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

ODE XXXIV.

ODE XXXV. To Fortune.

ODE XXXVI.

ODE XXXVII.

ODE XXXVIII.

BOOK II.

ODE I. To Asinius Pollio.

ODE II. To C. Crispus Sallustius.

ODE III. To Delius.

ODE IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

ODE V.

ODE VI. To Septimius.

ODE VII. To Pompeius Varus.

ODE VIII. To Barine.

ODE IX. To Valgius.

ODE X. To Licinius Murena.

ODE XI. To Quintius Hirpinius.

ODE XII. To Mæcenas.

ODE XIII.

ODE XIV. To Posthumus.

ODE XV.

ODE XVI. To Grosphus.

ODE XVII. To Mæcenas.

ODE XVIII.

ODE XIX.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

BOOK III.

ODE I. To Asinius Pollio.

ODE II.

ODE III.

ODE IV. To Calliope.