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

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.

University of Virginia Library

BOOK III.

ODE I. To Asinius Pollio.