The Works of Horace In English Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pollio! the Senate's Guide confess'd,
And Friend of Innocence distress'd,
For whom Dalmatia's Conquest won,
To deck your Brows, a fadeless Laurel Crown,
The growing Seeds of Civil War,
Commencing in Metellus' Year;
Fortune by Turns severe and kind;
And Roman Chiefs in cruel Leagues combin'd;

144

Our Arms, yet reeking with the Stains
Of Blood, that unaton'd remains;
A dangerous Task! You trace; and tread
On Fire, beneath deceitful Ashes spread!
Let then your Tragic Muse defer
To rouze th'applauding Theatre,
Till this great Work, with ripen'd Thought,
At length to just Perfection you have brought:
Then in Cecropian Buskins stand,
And sweep the Lyre with daring Hand—
Now with the Fife you pierce my Ear;
And now the Trumpet's sprightly Notes I hear!
The glittering Arms dismay the Horse,
Nor can the Rider guide his Course.
To Fancy's Eye each Chief appears,
While no inglorious Dust his Face besmears:
To Cæsar all the World resign'd
I see, but Cato's stubborn Mind!
Or Juno, or some friendly Power
To Afric, (who from thence had fled before),
Thither allur'd the Victor's Race,
(O lasting Shame! O dire Disgrace!)
To slay them on the Libyan Coast,
As Victims to Jugurtha's angry Ghost!

145

What distant Sea, or distant Flood,
But has been stain'd with Roman Blood?
In every Clime, on every Plain,
What Monuments of impious Wars remain?
Parthia rejoic'd to hear the Sound
Of Rome's dire Ruin echo'd round.
Such the Decrees of righteous Fate!
And such the sad Effects of Civil Hate!
But lest, fond Muse, the Céan Lyre
Thou should'st attempt, with Me retire
To Venus' Grott, and sooth thy Vein
With Subjects suited to thy lighter Strain!

147

ODE II. To Caius Sallust Crispus.

My Sallust's generous Thoughts disdain
The sordid Miser's hoarded Gain;
Since Silver with no Lustre glows,
But what a moderate Use bestows.

Good Proculeïus' honour'd Name
Shall mount upon the Wings of Fame;
Who, with a Father's tender Heart,
Did to his Brothers Aid impart.

Subdue but Avarice, you'll find
More wide this Empire of the Mind,
Than could You Libya join to Spain,
And o'er each Carthage Monarch reign.

Indulg'd, the Dropsy swells within;
The watry Humour puffs the Skin;
Nor can th'impatient Thirst be quell'd,
Unless the Cause is first expell'd.

148

Virtue, dissenting, will not own
Phraätes, on the Parthian Throne,
Completely blest: Her Voice disclaims
The popular Abuse of Names:

To those alone, who Wealth contemn,
She gives the Wreath, and Diadem;
To those alone, who Heaps of Gold,
With undesiring Eyes behold.

149

ODE III. To Dellius.

If Fortune smile, or prove unkind,
Learn to preserve a steady Mind.
Lest Pride and Pleasure swell too high;
Remember, Dellius, You were born to die;

150

Whether your Life You waste away
In Grief; or, on a festal Day,
Reclin'd in yon sequester'd Vale,
With rich Falernian Wine your Taste regale,

Where the tall Poplar, and the Pine,
Their hospitable Branches twine;
And the clear Stream, with gurgling Train,
Obliquely labours thro' the smiling Plain.

Here Wine, and Oyl, and Roses, bring,
Too short-liv'd Daughters of the Spring!
While Fortune, Health, and Youth, allow,
Ere with the Weight of feeble Age You bow.

From your Town-house, your purchas'd Grove,
And rural Seat, you must remove,
Which Tyber laves: Your joyful Heir
Shall your large Pile of hoarded Treasure share.

If wealthy, and of ancient Race;
Or poor; so meanly born and base,
To find no Covering but the Sky,
It nought avails; for All alike must die!

151

To the same Port we all are bound;
In the same Urn are rolling round
Our Lots; which drawn, or soon or late,
Convey us all to our eternal State!

152

ODE IV. To Xanthias Phoceus.

Blush not, my Friend, to own the Fire,
Which your fair Handmaid's Eyes inspire:
Briseïs' Charms of old could move
Achilles' haughty Soul to Love?

His beauteous Slave, Tecmessa, won
The Heart of Ajax Telamon.
With Love, renown'd Atrides glow'd,
While Tears from sad Cassandra flow'd,

O'er ruin'd Troy; when now the Plain
Was heap'd with Troops of Phrygians slain,
And Hector, snatch'd by Fate away,
Had made it fall an easier Prey.

Believe me, to an ancient Line,
A Bride, like her, your Blood may join;
And thence her generous Sorrows flow,
So high her Birth, her Fall so low.

153

She, who still faithful can remain,
And unsubdu'd by sordid Gain,
Must from no vulgar Race descend,
But such as will Your Choice commend,

Her taper Legs, her Face and Arms,
For Me untouch'd, have now no Charms;
For think remov'd, by forty Years,
Both all my Flames, and all your Fears.

ODE V.

[Your Heifer, Friend, is yet unbroke]

Your Heifer, Friend, is yet unbroke,
Nor can her Neck sustain the Yoke.
She now delights in Meads to stray,
And with the frisking Steerlings play;
To shun, in Shades, the piercing Beams,
And lave her in the cooling Streams.
Her yet unripen'd Beauties spare;
A while the tasteless Grape forbear;
And She, in Autumn's purple Grace
Matur'd, shall give her Lover Chace.

154

For Age whirls round, and every Year
It takes from You, will add to Her:
Your Lalagé shall then proclaim,
Without a Blush, her rival Flame;
And kindle one more fierce, than You
For Pholoë or Chloris knew:
Behold her Shoulder's radiant White;
Not Cynthia, in a cloudless Night,
Adorns the Sea with purer Rays;
And Gyges but divides our Praise,
Who, in the Virgin Choir, defies
The curious Stranger's prying Eyes,
So smooth his doubtful Cheeks appear,
So loose, so girlish, flows his Hair!

155

ODE VI. To Septimius.

Septimius! who with Me to Spain
Would'st sail, unpractis'd to sustain
Our Yoke; or Libya's faithless Shore,
Where Sands and Whirlpools guard the Moor:

May Tibur's Walls, th'Argéan Seat,
Afford my Age a calm Retreat!
There, worn with Journeys, Wars, and Seas,
May I enjoy unenvy'd Ease!

But, cross'd by Fate in this Desire,
Let Me contentedly retire
To where Galesus glides away,
And Flocks with borrow'd Clothing play.

No Fields, like this, my Fancy please;
Their choicest Sweets here cull the Bees;
The Berry of Venafran Soil
Swells not with richer Floods of Oyl.

156

Long is the Spring, the Winter warm,
Nor blighting Frosts the Meads deform;
Here Aulon, friendly to the Vine,
Repines not at Falernus' Wine.

That rural Scene, those blissful Towers,
Seem to invite our latest Hours:
Your Bard's warm Ashes there from You
Shall drink the Tear to Friendship due!

158

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Beville! who with your Friend would roam]

By Mr. Marriott, Fellow of Trinity-Hall, Cambridge.

1

Beville! who with your Friend would roam
Far from your England's happier Home,
Should e'er the Fates that Friend detain
In gayer France, or graver Spain:

2

Know, all my Wish is to retreat,
When Age shall quench my youthful Heat,
In Kentish Shades sweet Peace to find,
And leave the Sons of Care behind.

159

3

But should this pleasing Hope be vain,
May I fair Windsor's Seat attain,
Where Loddon's gentle Waters glide,
And Flocks adorn its flowery Side!

4

Sweet Groves! I love your silent Shades,
Your russet Lawns, and opening Glades.
With fam'd Italia's Plains may vye
Your fertile Fields, and healthful Sky.

5

Here, let our Eve of Life be spent;
Here, Friend shall live with Friend content:
Here, in cold Earth, my Limbs be laid;
And here, your generous Tear be paid.

ODE VII. To Pompeius Varus.

1

Pompey! with Me to utmost Dangers driven,
When we in Brutus' Army fought,
My first of Friends! what Power has brought
Thee to thy Country's Gods and native Heaven?

160

2

With whom, in Mirth and Wine, the tardy Day
(While Oyl of Syria, round my Head,
Its grateful, precious Fragrance spread),
So oft has glided unperceiv'd away.

3

With whom (unmindful of my little Shield)
I fled from dire Philippi's Plain,
When Valour fail'd; when Threats were vain;
And our bold Chiefs lay bleeding on the Field.

4

With Terror wing'd, I fled thro' hostile Arms,
Hid in a Cloud, which Hermes gave;
But Thee the furious refluent Wave
Again drove back to all the War's Alarms.

5

Pay then to Jove the promis'd Feast, nor spare
The hoarded Casks, for Thee design'd;
And, in my Laurel's Shade reclin'd,
Repose thy Limbs, fatigu'd by Length of War.

161

6

Fill up the polish'd Bowl with generous Wine;
From copious Shells rich Odors shed:
Who now, to crown the glowing Head,
Will Wreaths of Parsley or of Myrtle twine?

7

Who, nam'd by Venus, at the jovial Board
The Laws of drinking shall prescribe?
I, madder than the Thracian Tribe,
Rejoice to revell for a Friend restor'd.

J. D.

162

ODE VIII. To Bariné.

1

If e'er from Heav'n the slightest Harm
The false Bariné should alarm;
If for her Fault a Tooth or Nail
Were black, her Arts might still prevail.

163

2

But she no sooner gives her Hand,
Than strait she snaps the brittle Band;
Yet shines more eminently fair;
Of all our Youths the public Care!

3

No Pain she suffers, tho' forsworn
E'en by her Mother's sacred Urn;
By all the Stars that deck the Sky,
And by the Gods who Death defy.

4

Venus herself beholds with Smiles,
And Cupid laughs at all her Wiles;
Still on his Whetstone sharp'ning Darts,
Warm with the Blood of wounded Hearts.

5

Add that the Boys, who just attain
To ripen'd Manhood, court her Chain;
And former Lovers haunt her Door,
Who oft to quit the False-one swore.

6

Thee, for her Son the Mother fears;
Thee, thrifty Dotards for their Heirs;

164

And Brides, lest thy more powerful Charms
Should tempt their Consorts from their Arms.

ODE IX. To Valgius.

On the Death of his Son.

1

The Clouds not always pour forth Rain;
Nor always Storms deface the Plain,
And heave the Billows of the Caspian Flood;
Nor is the cold Armenian Coast
Bound up each Month by lazy Frost,
Nor Tempests always rock th'Apulian Wood.

165

2

But, Valgius, You your worthy Son,
Your blooming Mystes, still bemoan;
And ever fix'd your tender Grief remains:
When Hesper decks the purpling Skies,
And when before the Sun he flies,
You sooth your Woe with melancholy Strains.

3

Sage Nestor, for his Length of Years
Renown'd, not thus, with fruitless Tears,
Bedew'd his lov'd Antilochus's Urn;
Nor did his Parents, and the Train
Of Phrygian Sisters so complain,
And Troïlus with ceaseless Sorrow mourn.

4

Tune then no more the plaintive String,
But Cæsar's Conquests let us sing:
Euphrates, rolling with a narrower Stream;
The Tigris, to our Empire join'd,
And the Gelonian Horse, confin'd
To Bounds prescrib'd, be now the glorious Theme!

167

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Tho' Tempests long may toss the Sea]

To Clemené.

By George Jeffreys, Esq;

1

Tho' Tempests long may toss the Sea,
And Norway, chill'd by Winter, mourn;
Yet Norway's Snow will melt away,
When Zephyr's genial Gales return:

168

When Birds and Flowers the sullen Year restore,
It sighs in Winds, and weeps in Rain no more.

2

But You, eternal Mourner, You,
Amyntor, gone, where all must go,
With ever-streaming Eyes pursue,
Dwell on his Grave, and doat on Woe;
Amyntor is by Day the darling Theme,
And dear Amyntor still the nightly Dream.

3

Yet Mordaunt's Eyes are dry'd at last,
Tho' in one fleeting Year he mourn'd
His Angel Consort, bright and chaste,
With two brave Sons, to Dust return'd:
His fam'd Valencia's Doom in His we trace,
So signal was the Shock, so short the Space!

4

Of matchless Blandford's early Fate,
The Parents now no more complain;
The Sisters, sunk beneath the Weight
Of pious Sorrow, rise again,
Bright as the Moon, reflected by the Tide,
Or You, Clemené, ere your Brother died.

169

5

Then mourn no longer, heavenly Maid,
Amyntor snatch'd in Nature's Prime:
Must Beauty too, by Grief decay'd,
Be lost, like Him, before the Time?
Think on those Eyes, and then their Tears refrain;
Or must Philander always sue in vain?

ODE X. To Licinius.

Be wise, Licinius, and avoid
To sail too near the Shore;
Nor tempt too far the faithless Deep,
Where Tempests loudly roar.

Who loves the golden Mean, shall live
From sordid Want secure;
Nor feel the Tortures, which the Great
From Envy's Darts endure.

170

Huge Pines with Winds are oft'nest rock'd:
The higher they ascend,
Towers heavier fall; Jove's vengeful Bolts
Aspiring Mountains rend.

A Mind well-disciplin'd is still
Prepar'd for either State;
In adverse hopes, in prosperous fears
Another Turn of Fate.

Jove spreads the Heavens with dusky Clouds;
The Clouds he chides away;
To-morrow's Sun may shine serene,
Tho' Fortune lours to-day.

Sometimes Apollo tunes his Lyre,
And wakes the Muse to sing;
Nor deals perpetual Death around
With his unerring String.

Bravely to bear Afflictions, raise
And fortify your Mind;
But wisely furl your Sails, that swell
With too indulgent Wind.

J. D.

172

ODE XI. To Quintius Hirpinus.

1.

What the fierce Scythians and Cantabrians dare,
Make thou no Object of thy Care:
While Adria far from us divides
Their Arms by interposing Tides.

2.

No anxious Thought for Life thy Heart should touch;
Life lasts not long, nor asks for much.
Behold our Years! how fast they fly;
Youth vanishes, and Beauty fades;
Age drops her Snow upon our Heads,
And drives sweet Slumbers from our Eye!

1.

Not always vernal Flowers their Pride retain,
And full-orb'd Moons are sure to wane:
Why tire we then the narrow Mind,
For Cares eternal too confin'd?

173

2.

Rather beneath yon Plantane's spreading Shade,
Or this fair Pine, all careless laid,
Let us, carousing while we may,
Our silver'd Locks with Odors spread;
With Wreaths of Roses crown our Head,
And drink each gloomy Thought away.

1.

Th'enlivening God will sordid Care refine:
But, Boy! this hot Falernian Wine
Requires Allay; then quickly bring
Some Water from yon gurgling Spring.

2.

Who will fair Lydé from her House allure,
No vulgar Prostitute impure?
Bid the dear Girl make haste away;
And (like a Spartan Maid) with Hair
Tied in a Knot behind, prepare
Her Ivory Harp, with us to sing and play.

175

ODE XII. To Mæcenas.

By Sir Jeffrey Gilbert, Knt. Late Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.

1

Dire Hannibal, the Roman Dread,
Numantian Wars, which rag'd so long,
And Seas with Punic Slaughter red,
Suit not the softer Lyric Song.

2

Nor savage Centaurs, mad with Wine,
Nor Earth's enormous Rebel Brood,
Who shook with Fear the Powers Divine,
'Till by Alcides' Arms subdu'd.

3

Better, Mæcenas, thou in Prose
Shalt Cæsar's glorious Battles tell;
With what bold Heat the Victor glows,
What captive Kings his Triumphs swell.

176

4

Thy Mistress all my Muse employs;
Licinia's Voice, her sprightly Turns,
The Fire that sparkles in her Eyes,
And in her faithful Bosom burns.

5

When she adorns Diana's Day,
And all the beauteous Choirs advance,
With sweetest Airs, divinely gay,
She shines, distinguish'd in the Dance!

6

Not all Arabia's spicy Fields
Can with Licinia's Breath compare;
Nor India's self a Treasure yields,
To purchase one bright flowing Hair:

7

When she with bending Neck complies
To meet the Lover's eager Kiss,
With gentle Cruelty denies,
Or snatches first the fragrant Bliss.

178

ODE XIII. On a Tree, by whose Fall he had like to have been killed.

Inscribed to John Hughes, Esq;

Whoe'er, with sacrilegious Hand,
First planted Thee on my ill-fated Land,
(Of the whole Village the Disgrace,
Portending Ruin to his guiltless Race)
Must sure have dealt in all the Stores
Of poisonous Drugs, that Colchian Art explores;

179

And slain his sleeping Guest, or dy'd
His impious Hands in horrid Parricide.
Ingrate! to threaten thus the Head
Of Him, whose Soil has Thee so kindly fed!
None knows, of what he should beware;
Impending Fate eludes our wretched Care!
The Sailor dreads the raging Wave;
But dreams not on the Land to find a Grave.
The Roman fears the Parthian's Flight;
The Parthian, Roman Chains and Roman Might.
But to the Force of sudden Death
Whole Nations yield, and still shall yield, their Breath!
It little fail'd, but I had seen
The dreary Realms of Pluto's dusky Queen,
And Æacus's dread Abode,
And the distinguish'd Mansions of the Good,
Where Sappho, in Æolian Strains,
Of her fair Rival's treacherous Arts complains:
Alcæus too, with martial Fire,
To nobler Subjects tunes his golden Lyre;
And sings the Perils, which he bore
By Sea and Land, to gain a foreign Shore;
His Toils in War.—The Manes throng,
And greedily devour the rapturous Song!

180

The Vulgar most, to hear him tell,
What Battles he had won; what Tyrants fell!
Nor strange: His hundred sable Ears
The Dog of Hell hangs down, and gaping hears!
The Snakes, twin'd round the Furies Hair,
Sooth'd by their Verse, a Face less horrid wear.
Prometheus, Tantalus, their Pains,
List'ning, forget, and feel th'enchanting Strains!
And fierce Orion quits the Chace
Of Lions, and the Lynx's spotted Race.

1718.

184

ODE XIV. To Posthumus.

1

Hours, Months, and Years, with gliding Pace,
O Posthumus! fly swift away;
Nor can, alas! your Piety
Th'Approach of wrinkled Age delay.

2

For Age and unrelenting Death,
Advancing, close behind us steal;
Nor would three Hecatombs, each Day,
Appease the ruthless God of Hell.

185

3

For all that breathe must pass the Flood,
By which Geryon is confin'd
With triple Form, and Tityus bold;
No less the King than lowly Hind.

4

In vain we shun the foaming Rage
Of Seas, and Mars's crimson Plain;
In vain escape contagious Blasts,
Which gorge the Tomb in Autumn's Reign;

5

Cocytus' Stream, with torpid Wave
Mæandring, we must all behold;
The Virgins doom'd to fruitless Toil,
The Stone by Sisyphus uproll'd.

6

From Lands, and House, and pleasing Wife,
Cut off, your brittle Life shall end:
Of all your Trees, their fleeting Lord
None but the Cypress shall attend!

186

7

Your worthier Heir shall burst the Vaults,
And the fair Marble Pavement stain
With richer Wine, than what regales,
At their proud Feasts, the Salian Train.

188

ODE XV. Against the Luxury of the Times.

From Royal Palaces the Plough
Few Acres will retain,
While for the Vine-clad Elm we plant
Th'unmarriageable Plane.
Our Stew-ponds will the Lucrine Lake
Exceed—Their vain Perfume
Myrtles will breathe; and every Flower
Unprofitably bloom

189

In Olive-yards; a constant Source
Of Wealth to former Lords.
Scarce Entrance to the Noon-day Sun
The Laurel Grove affords.
'Twas not of old by Romulus,
Or unshorn Gato, thus ordain'd,
Or ancient Sages, who Renown
By wholsome Laws have gain'd.
Rich was the State; its Rulers poor;
No Subject dar'd to raise
A spacious Portico, to catch
The cooling Northern Breeze.
Their Clay-wrought Cots were portion'd out;
At public Cost each Town
Was wall'd; the Temples of the Gods
Were built with polish'd Stone.

J. D.

191

The Same Ode Imitated.

[We now no longer can allow]

By a Lady.

We now no longer can allow
Superfluous Acres to the Plough:
As we improve our Taste,
We turn them to fantastic Scenes,
Exotics all, and Ever-greens,
In various Order plac'd.

192

'Tis now a Crime for Trees to bear:
The Plumb, the Apple, and the Pear,
Are rooted from the Ground:
While Myrtles here their Buds disclose;
And there, to chear the ravish'd Nose,
The Orange blooms around.

Behold our airy Palaces!
Our Palestrina and Farnese!
How we in Fresco breathe!
Who but would think the lofty Dome
Had been convey'd entire from Rome,
To Wansted, or Blackheath?

Strong solid Buildings, warm and plain,
Our Ancestors could entertain,
An hospitable Race!
More frugally magnificent,
With Seats Eliza was content,
Which shone with simple Grace.

Whenever Cost, or Art, they show'd,
(Such as Antiquity bestow'd),
'Twas to the Public given.

193

Then let us imitate our Sires,
And finish the majestic Spires,
Which slowly rise to Heaven!

1714.

ODE XVI. To Grosphus.

1

The Sailor, when the Tempest roars,
And Moon and Stars but faintly shine,
For Ease, with lifted Hands, implores
The gracious Powers divine.

2

For Ease the Medes with Shafts are taught
To wound; and Thrace in Fight is bold;
But Ease, my Grosphus! is not bought
With Purple, Gemms, or Gold.

194

3

Nor Wealth, nor Lictors' Rods, can quell
The Mind's fierce Tumults, nor appease
The hovering Cares which love to dwell
In gilded Palaces.

4

Happy! who, with his simple Cheer
Content, seeks not from Home to stray;
Whose easy Slumbers Hope and Fear
Can never chase away.

5

Why should we crowd with various Schemes
Our Span, and distant Regions try?
Who leaves his Country, vainly dreams
He from himself can fly.

6

The Warrior on his fiery Steed,
Or brass-beak'd Ship, too sure will find,
Care can in Swiftness far exceed
The Stag, or rapid Wind.

195

7

Thought for the Morrow, Sons of Mirth
Discard. Mischance with Smiles to meet,
Will blunt its Sting: for Bliss on Earth
Was never found complete.

8

Fate snatch'd Achilles in his Prime;
With wasting Age Tithonus died;
And Heaven for Me may lengthen Time,
To Thee, perhaps, deny'd.

9

Sicilian Herds, a large Increase!
Around thee low; the Courser neighs
To Thee; the twice-dy'd purple Fleece
Thy tender Limbs arrays.

10

To Me, by Fate, a slender Vein
Of Wit, with my small Farm allow'd,
Has taught thy Horace to disdain
The base detracting Crowd.

J. D.

197

The Same Ode Imitated.

[For Quiet on Newmarket Plain]

To the Hon. James Yorke.

For Quiet on Newmarket Plain,
The shivering Curate prays in vain,
When wintry Showers are falling,
And stumbling Steed and whistling Wind
Quite banish from his anxious Mind
The Duties of his Calling.

With Thoughts engross'd by Routs and Plays
The gallant Soph for Quiet prays,
Confuted and confuting;
And Quiet is alike desir'd
Ev'n by the King's Professor, tir'd
With wrangling and disputing.

In crowded Senate, on the Chair
Of our Vice-Chancellor sits Care,
Undaunted by the Mace:
Care climbs the Yatch, when adverse Gales
Detain or tear our Patron's Sails,
And ruffles ev'n his Grace.

198

How blest is He, whose annual Toil
With well-rang'd Trees improves a Soil,
For Ages yet unborn!
Such as at humble Barley, plann'd
By mitred Herring's youthful Hand,
The cultur'd Plain adorn.

From Place to Place we still pursue
Content, and hope in each to view
The visionary Guest.
Vainly we shun intruding Care;
Not all, like You, the Joys can share
Of Wimple and of Wrest.

Then let us snatch, while in our Power,
The present transitory Hour,
And leave to Heaven the Morrow;
Youth has its Griefs; a Friend may die,
Or Nymph deceive; for none can fly
The Giant Hand of Sorrow.

His Country's Hope, and Parent's Pride,
In Bloom of Life young Blandford died:
His godlike Father's Eyes
Were dimm'd in Age by helpless Tears;
And Heaven to Me may grant the Years,
Which it to You denies.

199

Your rising Virtues soon will claim
A Portion of your Brothers' Fame,
And catch congenial Fire:
They shine in Embassy and War;
They grace the Senate and the Bar,
And emulate their Sire.

Invested with the sacred Gown,
You soon, to rival their Renown,
The glorious Task shall join;
And while They guard Britannia's Laws,
You, steady to Religion's Cause,
Shall guard the Laws Divine.

1753.

J. D.

ODE XVII. To Mæcenas,

On his Recovery from a Fit of Illness.

1

Why am I kill'd with your Complaint?
This, sure, no God will ever grant;
'Tis what your Horace cannot bear,

200

That You, on whom his Hopes rely,
That You, his great Support, should die,
And leave your Friend o'erwhelm'd wth deep Despair!

2

My Soul's best Part once snatch'd away,
How could her other wish to stay?
To breathe alone, no Joy can give,
When, of my dearer Half bereft,
No longer I entire am left,
And, dragging anxious Life, myself outlive.

3

I swear (and 'tis no idle Oath),
The self-same Day shall take us both;
Yes, yes, together we will go;
Or, if you should begin the Race,
I'll follow you with nimble Pace,
And join you, ere you reach the Realms below.

4

In vain Chimæra's flaming Breath
Would bar my vow'd Pursuit of Death,
Deny'd my Friend on Earth to see:
Gyas, tho' rais'd to Life again,
Would arm his hundred Hands in vain:
So Justice and the steady Fates decree!

201

5

Whatever Star, with ruling Power,
Presided at my natal Hour;
If Libra, or dread Scorpio's Sign,
Or Capricorn with stormy Rays,
(The Tyrant of th'Hesperian Seas),
Prevail'd; your Star was strangely mix'd with mine.

6

From Saturn's baleful Influence
Jove's milder Beams were your Defence,
And clogg'd the Wings of hasty Death,
When thrice, with loud applauding Noise,
The Theatre proclaim'd its Joys,
And blest the Gods for your protracted Breath.

7

My Head had felt the falling Oak,
But Faunus turn'd aside the Stroke,
Of Hermes' Sons the Guardian God.
Then pay your promis'd Sacrifice,
And let the votive Temple rise;
For Me, an humble Lamb shall yield her Blood.

203

ODE XVIII.

[Beneath my humble Roof, no Gold]

1

Beneath my humble Roof, no Gold,
Nor Ivory Cornice shines;
Nor Columns Citron Beams uphold,
Brought from th'Hymettian Mines.

2

I never, by a spurious Plea,
Dethron'd the lawful Heir;
Nor noble Dames weave Robes, for Me,
In purple Pomp, to wear.

204

3

But Truth I boast, a liberal Vein
Of Wit; tho' small my Store:
Nor do the Wealthy Me disdain:
I ask of Heaven no more;

4

Nor of Mæcenas aught require,
Of all I wish possest;
My Villa fills its Lord's Desire,
And makes him truly blest.

5

Days are by fleeting Days pursu'd;
The Moons increase and wane;
While Marble Blocks by You are hew'd,
Tho' Death is in your Train:

6

You stately Domes prepare to raise,
Unmindful of your Tomb;
And the hoarse Baïan Billows chase,
To give you ampler Room.

205

7

What tho' You daily stretch your Bounds,
Despising Wrong and Right!
What tho' You seize your Neighbour's Grounds,
Rejoicing in your Might;

8

And view him (seeking new Abodes,
An Exile from his Home,
His Bosom fill'd with Houshold Gods)
With Wife and Children roam!

9

Yet the rich Lord no Seat attends
More sure than Pluto's Hall;
Thither each Man in Turn descends,
As well the Great as Small.

10

Why haste you then to heap a Store
Of unavailing Wealth?
Hell's Captives can return no more
By Violence or Stealth.

206

11

Charon, Prometheus ne'er for Gold
Bore from his dark Domains;
He Tantalus in Stygian Hold,
And all his Race, detains:

12

But still attends the Wretch's Prayer,
Opprest with Toil and Woes;
Invok'd or not, he sooths his Care,
And endless Rest bestows.

J. D.

209

ODE XIX. A Hymn to Bacchus.

1

In Transport borne away, these Eyes
(Believe it, Ages hence to rise!)
Beheld, in a sequester'd Wood,
Bacchus rehearse his Song: Around
The Nymphs in Chorus caught the Sound;
With Ears erect the Satyrs list'ning stood!

2

Evœ! Fear shakes my troubled Soul,
And rising Joys alternate roll,
Full of th'o'erwhelming mighty God!
Evœ! O spare me—Bacchus, spare
My trembling shatter'd Frame to tear;
Nor brandish thus thy dreadful Ivy Rod!

210

3

O teach me to rehearse the Praise
Of thy adoring Votaries,
Fierce, and disdainful of the Yoke;
Teach me, in worthy Lays, to sing
Thy Streams of Wine, thy milky Spring,
And Honey dropping from the hollow Oak:

4

To sing thy Consort's honour'd Hair
Transform'd into a glorious Star;
And in my Lines the regal Tower
Of Pentheus, batter'd down, to trace;
Lycurgus too, the Scourge of Thrace,
A dreadful Victim to thy vengeful Power!

5

Indus and Ganges own thy Sway;
Thy Lore the barbarous Seas obey:
Thou lead'st o'er Mountains, flush'd with Wine,
O'er desart Plains, thro' Woods and Brakes,
The Thracian Dames, while lambent Snakes
Round their wild Tresses innocently twine!

6

When the bold Giants climb'd on high,
Impious, to storm thy Father's Sky,

211

The mighty Rhœtus, quell'd by Thee,
(Into a Lion's Shape transform'd,
And with a Lion's Talons arm'd,)
Retreating, curs'd his mad Temerity.

7

Tho' more renown'd for soft Delight,
For Dance and Sport; unfit for Fight
Thou once wert thought; from lazy Ease
Awaken'd, thou to Battle rose,
And trampled down thy vaunting Foes;
Alike the Arbiter of War and Peace.

8

When, with thy Horn of Gold adorn'd,
From Hell's dark Caverns Thou return'd,
E'en Cerberus, with triple Tongue,
Thy Deity was seen to greet:
Harmless he lick'd thy Legs and Feet,
And wagg'd his Tail, as Bacchus pass'd along!

214

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

Me shall no feeble Pinion bear
Amid' the boundless Tracts of Air;
A Bard transform'd!—I now from Earth
Shall soar unenvy'd—Tho' my Birth

Be mean, Your Love will from the Grave
Redeem me!—Nor the Stygian Wave,
Which rolls around the dreary Plain,
Shall Him, whom You call Friend, detain.

Now, now, my Legs and Thighs begin
To wear a black and rougher Skin:
See! from my Shoulders shoot forth Wings,
And on my Breast white Plumage springs:

And now, than Icarus more bold,
A tuneful Swan! I shall behold
Loud Bosphorus, Gætulian Sands,
And snow-clad Hyperborean Lands.

215

My Fame shall quiver'd Parthians hear,
Who fly with false dissembled Fear:
To letter'd Spain I shall be known,
Gelons, and those that drink the Rhone.

Forbear then, o'er my empty Urn,
With unbecoming Grief to mourn:
The Dirge, and Funeral Honours, spare;
Nor shed for Me the needless Tear.

J. D.

221

ODE.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Chancellor Cowper.

1

I'm rais'd, transported, chang'd all o'er!
Prepar'd, a tow'ring Swan, to soar
Aloft: See, see the Down arise,
And cloath my Back, and plume my Thighs!
My Wings shoot forth; now will I try
New Tracts, and boldly mount the Sky;
Nor Envy, nor Ill-fortune's Spite,
Shall stop my Course, or damp my Flight.

2

Shall I, obscure, or disesteem'd,
Of vulgar Rank henceforth be deem'd?
Or vainly toil my Name to save
From dark Oblivion, and the Grave?
No—He can never wholly die,
Secure of Immortality,
Whom Britain's Cowper condescends
To own, and numbers with his Friends.

222

3

'Tis done—I scorn mean Honours now;
No common Wreaths shall bind my Brow.
Whether the Muse vouchsafe t'inspire
My Breast with her celestial Fire;
Whether my Verse be fill'd with Flame,
Or I deserve a Poet's Name,
Let Fame be silent; only tell,
That generous Cowper loves me well.

4

Thro' Britain's Realms I shall be known
By Cowper's Merit, not my own.
And when the Tomb my Dust shall hide,
Stripp'd of a Mortal's little Pride,
Vain Pomp be spar'd, and every Tear:
Let but some Stone this Sculpture bear;
“Here lies his Clay, to Earth consign'd,
“To whom great Cowper once was kind.”

1717.

223

Ode XIV. Imitated.

By John, Earl of Corke.

[_]

The following Imitation being omitted in its proper Place, our Readers, we are sure, will excuse our adding it here.

1

How swift, alas! the rolling Years
Haste to devour their destin'd Prey!
A Moth each winged Moment bears,
Which still in vain the Stationers
From the dead Authors sweep away;
And Troops of Canker-worms, with secret Pride,
Thro' gay Vermillion Leaves and gilded Covers glide.

2

Great Bavius, should thy Critic Vein
Each Day supply the teeming Press,
Should'st thou of Ink whole Rivers drain,
Not one Octavo shall remain,
To show thy Learning and Address:

224

Oblivion drags them to her silent Cell,
Where brave King Arthur and his Nobles dwell.

3

Authors of every Size and Name;
Knights, 'Squires, and Doctors of all Colours,
From the Pursuit of lasting Fame
Retiring, there a Mansion claim:
Behold the Fate of modern Scholars!
Why will you then, with Hope delusive led,
For various Readings toil, which never will be read?

4

With Silver Clasp and Corner-Plate,
You fortify the favourite Book:
Fear not from Worms or Time your Fate!
More cruel Foes your Works await:
The Butler, with th'impatient Cook,
And Pastry-Nymphs, with Trunkmakers, combine
To ease the groaning Shelves, and spoil the fair Design.

The END of the Second Book.