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88
The 22d Ode of the first Book of Horace.
I
The Man unsully'd with a Crime,Disdains the Pangs of Fear,
He scorns to dip the poison'd Shaft,
Or poise the glittering Spear.
II
Nor with the loaded Quiver goesTo take the dreadful Field;
His solid Virtue is his Helm,
And Innocence his Shield.
89
III
In vain the fam'd Hydaspes' Tides,Obstruct and bar the Road,
He smiles on Danger, and enjoys
The Roarings of the Flood.
IV
All Climes are Native, and forgetsTh'Extreams of Heats and Frosts,
The Scythian Caucasus grows warm,
And cool the Lybian Coasts.
V
For while I wander'd thro' the Woods,And rang'd the lonely Grove,
Lost and bewilder'd in the Songs
And pleasing Cares of Love;
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VI
A Wolf beheld me from afar,Of monstrous Bulk and Might,
But naked as I was, he fled
And trembled at the Sight.
VII
A Beast so huge, nor Daunia's Groves,Nor Africk ever view'd;
Tho' nurst by Her, the Lion reigns
The Monarch of the Wood.
VIII
Expose Me in those horrid Climes,Where not a gentle Breeze
Revives the Vegetable Race,
Or chears the drooping Trees.
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IX
Where on the World's remotest VergeTh'unactive Seasons lie,
And not one genial Ray unbinds
The Rigor of the Sky.
X
On that unhabitable Shore,Expose me all alone,
Where I may view without a Shade,
The culminating Sun.
XI
Beneath th'Æquator, or the Pole,In safety could I rove;
And in a thousand different Climes
Could live for Her I love.
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