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

The Works of Horace In English Verse

By several hands. Collected and Published By Mr. Duncombe. With Notes Historical and Critical

Duncombe, John (1729-1786)

[epigraph]

VOLUME the FIRST.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

VOLUME the SECOND and LAST.

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1. VOLUME the FIRST.

THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

To the RIGHT HONOURABLE Anthony Lord Feversham. This First Book OF THE ODES of HORACE Is Inscribed BY His Lordship's Affectionate Kinsman, and most Obliged Humble Servant, The Editor.

ODE I. To Mæcenas.

Mæcenas! from an ancient Race
Of Kings deriv'd; my Guard and Grace!
There are, who to the Chariot trust;
And, clouded with Olympic Dust,
With fervid Wheels the Goal decline,
Where Victors claim the Palm divine.

In Civic Honours some rejoice,
Rais'd by the giddy Vulgar's Voice;
And some with Libyan Crops to fill
Their ample Garners; this to till

His native Farm; nor would he yield
The scanty Produce of his Field,
The Wealth of Attalus to gain,
By risking Dangers on the Main.

The Merchants, tost on stormy Seas,
Applaud Content and home-felt Ease;
And yet, impatient Want to bear,
Their shatter'd Vessels strait repair.

Old Massic Wine regales the Taste
Of him, who half the Day can waste
Beneath the fragrant Myrtle's Shade,
Or by a sacred Fountain laid.

To Camps and Wars, the Matron's Hate,
The Trumpet calls her daring Mate.

The Hunter flies his Consort's Arms,
Forgetful of her blooming Charms,
At Break of Day, 'midst chilling Snow,
With Hounds to chase the fearful Doe;
Or make the Marsian Boar his Prey,
Who thro' the Toils has forc'd his Way.

An Ivy Crown ennobles Me,
Whose darling Joy is Poetry.
If soft Euterpe tune the Flute,
And Polyhymnia strike the Lute,

In some obscure Recess I sing
A shady Grove and purling Spring,
Where the light Choir of Nymphs advance,
With Satyrs, in the mazy Dance.
But if Mæcenas place my Name
Among the Bards of Lyric Fame,
Above the Crowd I then shall rise,
And touch with lofty Head the Skies.

ODE II. To Augustus Cæsar.

Too long with Storms of Hail and Snow
Has Jove chastis'd the World below;
Too long his red right Arm has thrown
Dire Bolts to strike our Temples down.
Such swelling Waters have appear'd,
The World a second Deluge fear'd.
As when o'er Hills and craggy Rocks
Old Proteus drove his scaly Flocks;
When Shoals of Fishes, breathless, hung
On Trees, where Birds no longer sung;
And every Native of the Plain
At once was swimming in the Main.

We saw destructive Tyber flow,
And Monuments of Kings o'erthrow:
Nor ev'n from Numa's Fane retire,
Nor fear to quench dread Vesta's Fire;
When, mov'd by Tears which Ilia shed,
(His Wife, who mourn'd great Cæsar dead)

Back from the Tuscan Shore he drove
His Waves with too uxorious Love,
And took too much Revenge on Rome,
Reserv'd for Jove's superior Doom.

Our Youth will hear in future Times,
Our Youth (diminish'd by our Crimes),
That with our Blood those Arms we stain,
Which should the Parthian Foe have slain.

What God's Protection shall we crave,
The falling State of Rome to save?
How shall the sacred Virgin Throng
Make Vesta listen to their Song?
To whom will Jove the Pow'r convey,
To expiate all our Guilt away?
Clouds round thy glitt'ring Shoulders cast,
And to our Aid, O Phœbus! haste:
Or you, fair Cyprian Queen, descend,
Venus! whom Love and Joy attend:
Or thou, O Mars! whom clamorous Fight,
And shining Arms, alone delight;
To whom no Form so graceful shows,
As Warriors frowning on their Foes:
On thy neglected Race look down,
Whose Blood claims Kindred with thy own.

For sure our Feuds thy Fancy cloy
With Scenes, which once were all thy Joy.

Or if, bright Hermes, You appear,
Disguis'd like young Augustus here,
And, with that Title pleas'd, the Name
Of Cæsar's just Avenger claim,
Late may You rise to Heav'n again,
And long o'er Rome propitious reign;
Nor, at our Crimes offended, fly
Too soon, to bless your native Sky!
Here rather still great Triumphs love;
Here your just Titles still approve;
Of Prince and Father of our Land;
Nor let the Medes insult while You command.

J. D.

ODE III.

[So may th'auspicious Queen of Love]

By John Dryden, Esq.

Inscribed to the Earl of Roscommon, on his intended Voyage to Ireland.

So may th'auspicious Queen of Love,
And the twin Stars, (the Seed of Jove,)
And He, who rules the raging Wind,
To Thee, O sacred Ship! be kind;
And gentle Breezes fill thy Sails,
Supplying soft Etesian Gales;

As thou, to whom the Muse commends,
The best of Poets and of Friends,
Dost thy committed Pledge restore,
And land him safely on the Shore;
And save the better Part of Me,
From perishing with Him at Sea.

Sure He, who first the Passage try'd,
In harden'd Oak his Heart did hide,
And Ribs of Iron arm'd his Side!
Or his at least, in hollow Wood
Who tempted first the briny Flood;
Nor fear'd the Winds contending Roar,
Nor Billows beating on the Shore;
Nor Hyades, portending Rain,
Nor all the Tyrants of the Main.
What Form of Death could him affright,
Who unconcern'd, with stedfast Sight,
Could view the Surges mounting Steep,
And Monsters rolling in the Deep;
Could through the Ranks of Ruin go,
With Storms above, and Rocks below!

In vain did Nature's wise Commmand
Divide the Waters from the Land,

If daring Ships, and Men prophane,
Invade th'inviolable Main;
Th'eternal Fences overleap,
And pass at Will the boundless Deep.

No Toil, no Hardship, can restrain
Ambitious Man inur'd to Pain;
The more confin'd, the more he tries,
And at forbidden Quarry flies.

Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,
And stole from Heav'n the Seeds of Fire:
A Train of Ills, a ghastly Crew,
The Robber's blazing Track pursue;
Fierce Famine, with her meager Face,
And Fevers of the fiery Race,
In Swarms th'offending Wretch surround,
All brooding on the blasted Ground;
And limping Death, lash'd on by Fate,
Comes up to shorten half our Date.

This made not Dædalus beware,
With borrow'd Wings to sail in Air.
To Hell Alcides forc'd his Way,
Plung'd thro' the Lake, and snatch'd the Prey.
Nay scarce the Gods, or heav'nly Climes,
Are safe from our audacious Crimes;

We reach at Jove's imperial Crown,
And pull th'unwilling Thunder down.

The Same Ode Imitated.

To the Yatch, which carried the Duke of Marlborough to Holland.

By William Harison, Esq.

Thrice happy Bark, to whom is giv'n
The Pride of Earth, and Favourite of Heav'n,
Thy every guardian God implore,
And waft th'important Charge to Belgia's Shore;
Where Councils yet suspended wait
Britannia's last Resolves, and Europe's Fate.
So may the Winds with constant Gales
Fulfill thy Purpose, and inspire thy Sails;
Nereids and Nymphs attend thy Side,
Thy glitt'ring Stern protect, and gilded Pride.
Bold was the Man and bravely good,
Who tempted first the Sea's impetuous Flood,
Heard the Waves roar, the Tempests blow,
And sought in foreign Climes the distant Foe;

Who made his Country's Glory known,
And for the public Weal despis'd his own.
Auspicious Isle! in vain design'd,
By jealous Fate, a Stranger to Mankind,
Since uncontroul'd thy Offspring reign,
And sport, and triumph, on the harmless Main!
To manly Souls, resolv'd like theirs,
No Task has Danger, or no Danger, Fears.
Hence, Spirits of a Patriot Mould,
Daringly great, and fortunately bold,
Climbing th'imperial Seat, combine,
To sift the baffled Claim of Right Divine;
And to the World Instruction gave,
Distinguishing the Subject from the Slave.
Then lawless Pow'r receiv'd its Doom,
And Liberty reviv'd with native Bloom.
Though Nature, frugally inclin'd,
Has all her Gifts to narrow Bounds confin'd,
What will not Art and Pains supply?
O'er Waves forbad, in winged Tow'rs we fly,
And with Herculean Toil advance,
To quell th'united Pow'rs of Spain and France.
Nor Heav'n itself is unengag'd
In Wars, for Freedom and for Anna wag'd;

Rouz'd by her pious just Alarms,
Behold! The vengeful Thunderer in Arms,
Surveys the Field, with Slaughter spread,
And points his Churchill at the Tyrants Head.

1707.

ODE IV. To Sestius.

Winter dissolves before the vernal Gale,
And Ships new-rigg'd prepare to sail:
Nor Stalls the Herd, nor Fires the Clown delight;
No more the Meads with Frost are white.
Beneath the rising Moon is Venus seen,
The decent Graces, on the Green
To lead; who, mingling with the Nymphs, advance
With Foot alternate in the Dance;
While Vulcan, toiling with the Cyclops' Band,
Prepares for Jove the flaming Brand.
Now with green Myrtle crown your Brows, or Flow'rs,
Which loosen'd Earth, spontaneous, pours.
It now becomes us, in the shady Groves
To yield the Victim Pan approves.

Impartial Death assaults, with equal Pow'r,
The lowly Cott and regal Tow'r.
O happy Sestius! Life's short fleeting Span
Allows no long protracted Plan;
For soon, too soon! cut off from chearful Light,
We must descend to sullen Night,
And, in the Realms of fabled Shades below,
Thy pining Ghost no Joy shall know;
No longer by the Die's successful Cast,
Shalt thou controul the gay Repast;
No more the soft and soothing amorous Fire
Shall there thy shadowy Form inspire!

ODE V. To Pyrrha.

What slender Boy, with Odors sweet,
Shall in a Grotto's cool Retreat,
Thy too enchanting Form caress,
And on a Couch of Roses press?
For whom in Wreaths dost thou prepare,
So simply neat, thy golden Hair?
How oft, of Gods adjur'd in vain,
And broken Vows, shall he complain?
How oft admire, when Winds arise,
To see black Clouds deform the Skies;
New to the Sex, who tastes thy Charms,
And fondly clasps thee in his Arms;

In thee, a Mistress ever kind,
And ever lovely, hopes to find;
And thinks, too credulous, the Breeze
Will last; nor Tempests toss the Seas!
Ah wretched they! whom Pyrrha's Smile,
And unsuspected Arts beguile!
For Me, the sacred Tablet shows
That I have hung my dripping Cloaths
At Neptune's Shrine: And now on Shore
Secure, I'll tempt the Deep no more.

The Same Ode Imitated.

By Another Hand.

1

In the cooling Grotto's Shade,
On the Rose's Bosom laid,
Fair one, say, what slender Boy,
Breathing spicy Odors round,
Now may teaze, and sweetly toy,
And with Pyrrha's Smiles be crown'd.

2

Whom awaits the golden Snare
(Golden Locks of wreathed Hair!)
Charms in simple Neatness drest;
How, alas! shall he repent,
Sigh and silently lament
Griefs too strong to be exprest!

3

Gods inconstant! Gods estrang'd!
All the Face of Nature chang'd!
Broken Faith and broken Vows!
Boisterous Winds and ruffled Seas!
And a stormy Look, that shows
Thee more cruel still than these.

4

How shall He admire the Change,
(Unexperienc'd in the Sight),
Who, through Love's enchanted Range,
Revelling in gay Delight,
Thinks Thee now and ever his,
Lovely Pledge of future Bliss!

5

Trusting the soft-breathing Gale,
Now he spreads a flowing Sail;

But unhappy is the Youth,
Who, confiding in thy Truth,
Launches in the splendid Rays
Of thy fair delusive Face!

6

I, who lately did arrive,
Safe from Shipwreck, on the Shore,
Sworn to let my Vessel drive
On Love's Ocean never more,
Here this grateful Frame decree
To the God, who rules the Sea!

ODE VI. To Agrippa.

By George Jeffreys, Esq. Formerly Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.

1

A Varius, rais'd on Homer's Wing,
Your Valour and Success demand,
Our gallant Veterans to sing,
Victorious under You by Sea and Land.

2

Such Deeds, Agrippa, to relate,
Is far above my slender Vein;
To reach Achilles' stubborn Hate,
Or sage Ulysses' wand'ring o'er the Main.

3

The Muse, that tunes the bashful Lyre,
Unequal to heroic Lays,
Forbids Me, void of Wit and Fire,
To sully Yours, and sacred Cæsar's Praise.

4

Merion, with Trojan Dust o'erspread,
Or Mars in Arms of Adamant,
Or Diomed, by Pallas' Aid,
A Match for Gods in Battle, who can paint?

5

For Me, untouch'd, or half-subdu'd
By Love, of Feasts, where Virgins fight
With close-par'd Nails their Lovers rude;
With my accustom'd Levity I write.

The Same Ode, Imitated, and addressed to the Duke of Marlborough

By Sir Richard Steele.

When Addison's immortal Verse,
Great Prince, your Glory does rehearse,
With Anna's Lightning You appear,
And glitter o'er again in War,

Repeat the proud Bavarian's Fall,
And in the Danube plunge the Gaul.
'Tis not for Me, your Worth to show,
Or lead Achilles to the Foe,
Describe stern Diomed in Fight,
And put the wounded Gods to Flight.
I dare not, with unequal Rage,
On such a mighty Theme engage;
Nor sully, in a Verse like mine,
Illustrious Anna's Praise, and thine.
Let the laborious Epic Strain,
In lofty Numbers sing the Man,
Who bears to distant Realms her Arms,
And strikes thro' Gallia dread Alarms;
His Courage and his Conduct tell,
And on his various Virtues dwell.

In trifling Cares my humble Muse
A less ambitious Tract pursues.
Instead of Troops in Battle mixt,
And Gauls with British Spears transfixt,
She paints the soft Distress and Mien
Of Dames expiring with the Spleen.
From the gay Noise, affected Air,
And little Follies of the Fair,

A slender Stock of Fame I raise,
And draw from others Faults my Praise.

1709.

ODE VII. To Munatius Plancus.

Some Bards extoll in lofty Lays
Fam'd Rhodes', or Mitylené's Praise:
Thebes, dear to Bacchus, some inspires,
And some Apollo's Delphos fires,
Or Ephesus, or Tempe's Plain,
Or Corinth with her double Main.
Others, untir'd, in endless Verse
Minerva's Tow'rs alone rehearse;
And hence the Olive, lov'd by her,
To every other Tree prefer.
While some, in Juno's Praise, proclaim
Her Argos', or Mycenæ's Fame;

Mycenæ's Realm, with Plenty crown'd,
And Argos' Lawns, for Steeds renown'd.
But neither patient Sparta's Fields,
Nor all the Charms Larissa yields
Of Hill and Valley, please me more
Than hoarse Albunea's deaf'ning Roar,
And Anio rolling in Cascades,
And Tibur's Grove, where thro' the Shades
The Stream, with slow meändring Waves,
My Plancus' Meads and Garden laves.

As Southern Winds oft clear the Sky,
Nor still foretell a Tempest nigh,
Do thou, discreetly, with a Friend
And generous Wine, thy Brows unbend,
Whether the Camp thy Fancy warms,
Or Tibur sooths with peaceful Charms.
When Teucer fled his native Land,
Driv'n by his Father's harsh Command,
(As Fame reports) his reeking Brows
He crown'd with Wreaths of Poplar Boughs,
And, with an animating Look,
His drooping Comrades thus bespoke;
‘Wherever Fortune, less severe
‘Than my stern Sire, our Course shall steer,

‘And point us out the destin'd Way,
‘Chearly we'll follow, and obey.
‘Then let each Fear be laid aside,
‘Teucer's your Leader and your Guide;
‘And faithful Phœbus has foretold,
‘I still my sovereign Pow'r shall hold,
‘And, on some unknown foreign Land,
‘Another Salamis command.

‘My brave Companions, (who before
‘Worse Ills with me undaunted bore)
‘To-day in Wine drown every Pain,
‘To-morrow we'll set sail again.’

ODE VIII. To Lydia.

By Mr. Needler.

By Heav'n, I beg you, Lydia, say,
Why you by Love's bewitching Arts betray
Young Sybaris, and would destroy
His Virtue, by the soft unmanly Joy?
Why does he now the Circus shun,
No longer patient of the Dust and Sun?
Why hates he 'midst the martial Train,
To curb the Gallic Steed with graceful Rein?
Nor dares to brave the Tyber's Flood,
And Wrestler's Oyl fears more than Viper's Blood?
Why do his Arms no longer wear
Of honourable Blows the livid Scar?
Why for the Quoit beyond the Bound
With Vigour hurl'd, is he no more renown'd?
Why like Achilles, when the Host
Of Greece prepar'd to seek the Trojan Coast,
Skulks he at home, unaw'd by Shame,
And sinks in Sloth, and Love's inglorious Flame?

ODE IX. To Thaliarchus.

By John Dryden, Esq.

1

Behold yon Mountain's hoary Height,
Made higher with new Mounts of Snow;
Again behold the Winter's Weight
Oppress the lab'ring Woods below;
And Streams, with icy Fetters bound,
Benumb'd and crampt to solid Ground.

2

With well-heap'd Logs dissolve the Cold,
And feed the genial Hearth with Fires;
Produce the Wine that makes us bold,
And sprightly Wit and Love inspires.

For what hereafter shall betide,
Jove, if it's worth his Care, provide.

3

Let him alone, with what he made,
To toss and turn the World below;
At his Command the Storms invade,
The Winds by his Commission blow;
Till with a Nod he bids them cease,
And then the Calm returns, and all is Peace.

4

To-morrow and her Works defy,
Lay hold upon the present Hour,
And snatch the Pleasures passing by,
To put them out of Fortune's Pow'r:
Nor Love, nor Love's Delights disdain,
Whate'er thou gett'st To-day, is Gain.

5

Secure those golden early Joys,
That Youth, unsour'd with Sorrow, bears,
E're with'ring Time the Taste destroys
With Sickness and unwieldy Years!
For active Sports, for pleasing Rest,
This is the Time to be possest;
The best is but in Season best.

6

Th'appointed Hour of promis'd Bliss,
The pleasing Whisper in the Dark,
The half unwilling willing Kiss,
The Laugh that guides thee to the Mark,
When the kind Nymph would Coyness feign,
And hides but to be found again;
These, these are Joys, the Gods for Youth ordain.

The Same Ode, Imitated. To Philander.

By Thomas Mulso, jun. Esq.

No more the Jess'min shades our naked Bowers;
No more the Groves, or Meadows green appear;
Behold, my Friend, the Tyrant Winter lours;
The shivering God descends in fleecy Showers,
And desolates the Year.
New Hills of Snow upon the Mountains rise,
A hideous Height
Of barren White,
That glares amidst the gloomy Skies!

The lifeless Floods forget to flow,
And stiff with Cold and Horror grow.
Come let us thaw the freezing Blood,
Pile up the chearful-blazing Wood;
See that the life-recruiting Board
With hospitable Plenty's stor'd
Of racy Wines, and generous Food.
Preserve a free and cheerful Mind,
Trust to the Gods for all behind;
And anxious Fears,
And eating Cares,
O give 'em to the restless Wind!
Winter will come, and Storms will rage,
And often vex the troubled Sea;
But Heav'n their Fury will asswage;
And many a Tempest-beaten Tree
Stands to a quiet healthy Age.
Let us be merry whilst we can;
To-day is all that's giv'n to Man;
And why anticipate To-morrow?
'Twill come too soon, if fraught with Sorrow:
Oh! rather the dear Hour prolong
With sprightly Mirth, and Dance, and Song;
Alas! Youth will not last too long!

Whilst we have vig'rous Limbs, the hunted Field,
And shining Stage their various Joys will yield;
Insipid Age will come too soon, and damp
The lazy Flame of our expiring Lamp.
But Love's the Quintessence of all, my Friend,
Love, like the western Pine-apple, will blend
All Tastes delicious, Pleasures without End!
Think that the wish'd for Hour is near,
When we shall meet the willing Fair,
And whisper Love-tales in her glowing Ear:
Think that she hides, yet would not be conceal'd,
By luring Laughs designedly reveal'd:
A thousand Kisses welcome when we meet,
A thousand more to punish the Deceit;
Or in Revenge, in am'rous Play,
(Love's mystic Seal)
The Ring from her dear taper Finger steal;
She struggles hard, but struggles it away.
Her Smiles belye the Anger of her Words,
Which wound like Players with their pointless Swords.

ODE X. To Mercury.

1

Hermes polite! from Atlas sprung!
Powerful to tame the savage Hearts
Of new-born Man, with tuneful Tongue;
Their Bodies gracing too with manly Arts.

2

Thy Praise my grateful Muse shall sing,
Envoy of Jove to Earth and Hell;
The Parent of the Vocal String,
And sly in Wantonness of Heart to steal.

3

Unless his Herd he would restore,
Severely menacing the Child,
He dearly should the Theft deplore;
Stript of his Quiver too, Apollo smil'd.

4

By Thee, his Hector to regain,
From Troy, was wealthy Priam led,
Deceiv'd the Greeks, and cross'd the Plain,
With hostile Tents, and Fires, and Guards o'erspread.

5

Thou dost conduct unblemish'd Souls
To Seats of Bliss: Thy golden Rod
The flitting Troop of Ghosts controuls,
Grateful, Above, Below, to every God!

ODE XI. To Leuconoe.

1

Enquire not thou ('twere all in vain)
My dear Leuconoë,
What End the righteous Gods ordain,
Or to thyself or me.

2

Seek not in Magic or the Stars
To read Events to come;
Nor by imaginary Fears
Anticipate thy Doom.

3

Whether Jove grant one Winter more,
Or this should prove thy last,
Which whitens all the Tyrrhene Shore
With many an angry Blast;

4

Be wisely gay; cut off long Cares
From thy contracted Span,
Nor stretch thy busy Hopes and Fears
Beyond the Life of Man.

5

Ev'n while we speak, the Stream of Time
Rolls rapidly away;
Then seize the present, use thy Prime,
Nor trust another Day.

ODE XII. To Augustus.

1

What Man, what Hero shall inspire,
My Clio's Fife with sprightly Lays?
Or will she chuse to strike the Lyre
Devoted to the Gods in Hymns of Praise?

2

Whose Name shall sportive Echo sound,
The Heliconian Shades along,
Or hoary Hæmus' Hills around,
Where list'ning Oaks attended Orpheus' Song;

3

Taught by Calliopé to bind
The headlong Fury of the Floods,
To still the rude and boist'rous Wind,
And from their Roots to draw the crowding Woods.

4

Whom first, as wont, but Father Jove,
Who shifts the Seasons, shall I sing?
By Him all Creatures live and move;
Of Heav'n, and Earth, and Hell, the sovereign King.

5

To Jove, none like, or second none,
Now is, can be, or ever was—
Yet Pallas, for her Prowess known,
Possesses next to him the highest Place.

6

Nor Bacchus, nor the Virgin fam'd
For hunting down, with hostile Art,
The savage Race, shall pass unnam'd;
Nor Phœbus fear'd for his unerring Dart.

7

Alcides too, my Muse, resound;
And Leda's Sons: One the fleet Horse,
And rapid Car, with Conquest crown'd;
And one in Wrestling prov'd his matchless Force.

8

Soon as their happy Stars appear,
Hush'd is the Storm, the Waves subside,
The Clouds disperse, the Skies are clear,
And without Murmurs sleeps th'obedient Tide.

9

Shall Romulus succeed, my Lays
To grace; or Numa's peaceful State?
Thy Fasces, Tarquin, shall I raise?
Or envy dying Cato's glorious Fate?

10

The Scauri, let my grateful Muse,
And, Regulus, thy Faith proclaim;
And, of his mighty Soul profuse,
Let Paulus rival his great Victor's Fame.

11

By Poverty, with hardy Fare,
Fabricius and Camillus, train'd;
And Curius with his matted Hair,
Their small hereditary Farms maintain'd.

12

Thy Fame, Marcellus! grows with Years,
And, like a Plant unseen aspires;

And bright the Julian Star appears,
As Cynthia shines among the smaller Fires!

13

Father and Guardian of Mankind,
From Saturn sprung! to Thee is giv'n
By Fate, to guide great Cæsar's Mind,
Supreme on Earth!—Reign thou supreme in Heav'n!

14

Whether, in righteous War o'ercome,
Th'encroaching Parthians he repell;
The Sons of Ganges aw'd by Rome,
Or Seres, more remote, his Triumph swell:

15

Second to Thee alone, the World,
He justly rules; but Heav'n shall bend
Beneath thy Car; and Thunder hurl'd
By thy Right-hand, polluted Groves shall rend.

ODE XIII. To Lydia.

By George Jeffreys, Esq;

1

While Telephus's glowing Charms,
And Telephus's waxen Arms,
Fond Lydia, you commend,
My Colour varies like my Mind;
To Grief and Rage by Turns resign'd;
And Pangs my Vitals rend.

2

The Moisture, stealing down my Cheeks,
The slowly-wasting Fever speaks,
That dries my languid Veins;
Nor can my Spleen the Wine support,
That, spilt by him in drunken Sport,
Your snowy Shoulder stains.

3

I burn whene'er the biting Kiss
Has mark'd the furious Lover's Bliss:
Can such a Love be true,
Whose savage Raptures could annoy
The Lips which Venus bath'd for Joy
In her celestial Dew?

4

Thrice happy they, and more than thrice,
Whom Passion, free from Strife or Vice,
To chaste Endearments guides:
Unbroken Union is their Lot;
And no Resentments tear the Knot,
Which only Death divides.

ODE XIV.

[O ship, shall boisterous Waves again]

To the Commonwealth, under the Allegory of a Ship in Distress.

O ship, shall boisterous Waves again
Bear thee to Sea? What wouldst thou? O remain

In Port. Behold thy naked Side!
Scarce can thy Keel withstand th'imperious Tide,
Thy Sail-yards groan, while Southern Blasts
Around thee roar, and crack thy stubborn Masts.
Tho' of the Pontic Wood the Grace
And stately Daughter once, thy Name and Race
Are vain: See flitter'd every Sail,
And on no God thy Vows can now prevail.
What Mariner for Succour flies
To painted Sterns, when foaming Billows rise?
O late my Grief, and now my Care,
Lest thou become the Sport of Winds, beware;
With Caution steer; and shun the Seas,
Whose Surges lash the shining Cyclades.

J. D.

The Same Ode Imitated.

By I. H. B. Esq.

O ship! shall new Waves again bear thee to Sea?
Where, alas! art thou driving? Keep steady to Shore;

Thy Sides are left without an Oar,
And thy shaken Mast groans, to rude Tempests a Prey.
Thy Tackle all torn, can no longer endure
The Assaults of the Surge, that now triumphs and reigns.
None of thy Sails entire remains,
Nor a God to protect in another sad Hour.
Tho' thy Outside bespeaks thee of noble Descent,
The Forest's chief Pride, yet thy Race and thy Fame,
What are they but an empty Name?
Wise Mariners trust not to Gilding and Paint.
Beware then, lest thou float uncertain, again
The Sport of wild Winds; late my sorrowful Care,
And now my fondest Wish, beware
Of the changeable Shoals where the Rhine meets the Main.

1746.

ODE XV. The Prophecy of Nereus.

By a Lady.

From Sparta's hospitable Shore,
His Prize when faithless Paris bore,
While Guilt impatient crowds his Sail,
Prophetic Nereus checks the Gale,
By Force the flying Robber holds,
And thus the Wrath of Heaven unfolds:

‘In vain thy Fleet transports the Dame,
‘Whom injur'd Greece shall soon reclaim,
‘Prepar'd to break thy lawless Tye,
‘And Priam's ancient Realm destroy.
‘Behold the Troops, the foaming Steed,
‘To Labours doom'd, and doom'd to bleed!
‘See! Victim to thy lewd Desires,
‘Thy Country blaze with funeral Fires!
‘See! Pallas eager to engage,
‘Prepares her Car and martial Rage:

‘She waves her Ægis, nods her Plumes,
‘And all the Pomp of War assumes!
‘In vain, devoted to thy Side,
‘Shall Cytherea swell thy Pride;
‘In vain thy graceful Locks express
‘The studied Elegance of Dress;
‘Thy languid Harp, with amorous Air,
‘In vain shall charm the list'ning Fair;
‘The Palace screen thy conscious Heart
‘In vain, against the Cretan Dart,
‘And Ajax, nimble to pursue.
‘What tho', conceal'd from public View,
‘The Chamber guards thy nicer Ear
‘From all the horrid Din of War;
‘At length, Adulterer! fall thou must,
‘And trail those beauteous Locks in Dust!
‘See! Author of thy Country's Fate,
‘Ulysses, practis'd in Deceit.
‘Behold the hoary Pylian Sage,
‘Against her forfeit Towers engage.
‘Teucer and Sthenelus unite
‘With various Skill, in various Fight.

‘Tydides, greater than his Sire,
‘To find thee, burns with martial Fire.
‘But as a grazing Stag, who spies
‘The distant Wolf, with Terror flies;
‘So shalt thou fly, with panting Breath,
‘And falt'ring Limbs, th'Approach of Death.
‘Where is thy boasted Courage? Where
‘Thy Promise plighted to the Fair?
‘Tho' fierce Achilles' sullen Hate
‘Awhile protracts the City's Fate,
‘Heav'n shall its righteous Doom require,
‘And Troy in Grecian Flames expire!’

The Same Ode Imitated.

[When Gallia's Fleet young Stuart bore]

When Gallia's Fleet young Stuart bore,
To Scotland's hospitable Shore,
As thro' Biscaya's stormy Bay,
Th'impatient Warrior urg'd his Way,
Stern Neptune, Britain's Guardian God,
Swift-rising from the troubled Flood,
Bad the hoarse Winds their Tumult cease,
And hush'd the angry Waves to Peace,
Whilst thus, with harsh prophetic Truth,
He warn'd the bold advent'rous Youth.

‘With adverse Winds thou brav'st in vain
‘These Seas, a fancy'd Crown to gain,

‘Perfidious is the Wind and Sea,
‘But greater Gallia's Perfidy,
‘Ev'n tho', to fix thee on the Throne,
‘Her Troops and Navy were thy own,
‘Ere, by that Navy wafted o'er,
‘Those Troops could gain the British Shore,
‘What Ships, what Legions would be lost,
‘For watchful Vernon guards the Coast?

‘Ev'n now the dreaded Lion rears
‘Her hostile Flag, and Brett appears,
‘Crown'd with a Wreath, bestow'd by Me
‘In spicy India's Southern Sea.
‘Undaunted by superior Force,
‘He strait shall stop thy Convoy's Course,
‘And soon those Thunders (felt by Spain),
‘With Gallic Blood shall dye the Main;
‘Till back to Brest the baffled Crew,
‘With splinter'd Masts their Course pursue,
‘And leave thee to assert thy Throne,
‘Unarm'd, unguarded, and alone.

‘True, when thou gain'st a Northern Port,
‘The neighb'ring Clans shall all resort,
‘With Fifes their bonny Charles to greet,
‘And lay their Targets at thy Feet.

‘Yet tho, with wide-unfolded Gates,
‘Edina thy Arrival waits,
‘No Bribes shall win, no Threats shall wrest
‘The Citadel from hoary Guest:
‘And soon from Sloth shall England wake,
‘And her luxurious Fetters break.
‘When mitred York dissolves the Charm,
‘See! all the Nation takes th'Alarm,
‘And Prelates preach, and Nobles arm.

‘In vain, to please the Scottish Fair,
‘Plad Ribbons braid thy beauteous Hair;
‘In vain, with Caledonian Grace,
‘An azure Bonnet shades thy Face;
‘With Target arm'd, and Breadth of Sword,
‘In vain thou foremost tempt'st the Ford,
‘And dar'st each Night in Tents defy
‘The Rigours of a freezing Sky.
‘Tho' Conquest point to Preston's Mead,
‘Tho' Cope shall fly, and Gardner bleed,
‘Yet hardy Troops and Chiefs remain,
‘To Battle train'd on Flandria's Plain:
‘See Crawford, Loudon, Huske, and Bland,
‘Surrounded by a veteran Band,

‘And Blakeney, with Experience fraught,
‘At Carthagena dearly bought.
‘What tho' the Hope of Plunder draws
‘Some needy Nobles to thy Cause;
‘Tho' to thy Camp, with Vengeance vow'd,
‘The Slaves of wily Lovat crowd;
‘And in thy Host, with downcast Mien,
‘Kilmarnock's graceful Form is seen;
‘No Tyes of Blood from Brunswick's Side
‘Young Boyde and Ancram can divide;
‘The Lowlands still thy Course oppose,
‘And half the Nation are thy Foes.

‘But now, to quench Rebellion's Flame,
‘And emulate his Father's Fame,
‘To barren Heaths and wintry Skies,
‘From polish'd Courts, see! William flies;
‘On snow-clad Hills his Standard rears;
‘And soon Culloden's Plain appears.

‘O! with what Grief shalt thou survey
‘The Ruin of that dreadful Day,
‘When Slaughter uncontroul'd shall reign,
‘And proudly stride o'er thousands slain;
‘When, sav'd for a severer Death,
‘Thy Peers on Scaffolds yield their Breath,

‘And Desolation's Talons seize
‘Their Fields and forfeit Villages.

‘Mean while, o'er many a craggy Height,
‘Thou, hapless Youth! shalt speed thy Flight;
‘For Safety forc'd to lay aside
‘Thy martial Garb and manly Pride,
‘And o'er the Friths and Mountains pass,
‘In Semblance of an Highland Lass.

‘At length, when all thy Dangers o'er,
‘Thou safely gain'st that peaceful Shore,
‘Where rapid Rhone, with boisterous Waves,
‘The Vines of mild Avignon laves,
‘There shalt thou court monastic Ease,
‘And tempt no more the faithless Seas;
‘By Foes repuls'd, by Friends betray'd,
‘Of Britain much, of Gallia more afraid.’

J. D.

ODE XVI. To Tyndaris, Whom he had insulted in Iämbic Verse.

Nymph! of a beauteous Mother born,
Whom still superior Charms adorn,
My slanderous Verses, as you please,
Destroy; by Flames, or in the Seas.
Nor Phœbus could his Prophets fire,
Nor Bacchus to Extremes so dire,
Nor Corybantian Cymbals wound
The Ear with such a clattering Sound,
As baleful Rage, which neither Flame,
Nor Steel, nor Tempest, can reclaim;
And Jove, its Madness to restrain,
Would hurl his triple Bolt in vain.

'Tis said, when Japhet's Son began
To mould the Clay, and fashion Man,

He stole from every Beast a Part,
And fix'd the Lion in his Heart.
From Rage the tragic Ills arose,
That crush'd Thyestes; hence the Woes
Of Cities with the Ground laid ev'n,
And Plough-shares o'er their Ruins driv'n
Then curb your Anger: Heat of Youth
(I now with Shame confess the Truth)
Prompted alone my guilty Muse
In rapid Numbers to abuse
Your blameless Name—Forgiv'n by You,
I will a softer Theme pursue.

ODE XVII. To the Same.

1

Swift-footed Faunus often deigns
To quit Arcadia's fruitful Plains;
And for my Sabine Bow'rs
His own Lycæum he neglects,
And here my tender Kids protects
From Heat and stormy Show'rs.

2

For secret Shrubs and thymy Food,
The Dams securely search the Wood,
Nor fear the Viper's Sting:
No prowling Wolves alarm the Flocks,
While with his Pipe the sloping Rocks
And vocal Valleys ring.

3

The Gods still guard me; they approve
My blameless Piety, and love

My Muse's grateful Strain:
Here Plenty's liberal Horn shall pour
For Tyndaris a various Show'r
Of Fruits, with every Grain.

4

Here, while a Valley's cool Retreat
From the fierce Dog-star's raging Heat
Thy beauteous Form shall skreen,
Thou to the Teïan Lyre shalt sing
Ulysses, of dire Griefs the Spring
To Circé, and his Queen.

5

Here, where the flaunting Boughs entwine,
Regale on harmless Lesbian Wine;
Nor Mars shall e'er intrude
To spoil our Mirth with frantic Noise,
And chase mild Bacchus' temperate Joys
With Brawls and Quarrels rude.

6

Free from Alarms, thou need'st not fear
To fire with jealous Fury here
Impatient Cyrus' Breast:

Nor shall the Savage from thy Hair
The flowery Chaplet snatch, or tear
Thy unoffending Vest.

J. D.

ODE XVIII. To Varus.

No Plant, like the Vine, will on Tibur's mild Soil
Repay my dear Varus, and crown all his Toil.
How lifeless the Dry and the Sober appear!
'Tis Wine, Wine alone, that can drown every Care.

Chear'd by Wine, who at Want or at Warfare inveighs?
Who is silent in Venus' or Bacchus's Praise?
But let Prudence restrain you; and timely be taught
By the Feasts of the Centaurs and Lapithæ, fraught
With Fury and Slaughter, ne'er rashly to slide
O'er the Limits, wihch Mirth from Intemperance divide.
Blind Passion reigns ever, such Revels among;
Lust, the Arbiter only of Right and of Wrong.
Unbidden I venture not, white-vested God,
To brandish profanely thy Ivy-crown'd Rod;
Nor unfaithfully e'er to the Day-light reveal
The mystical Rites, which thy Branches conceal.
Restrain thy Horn, Timbrels, and Bacchanal Crew,
Whom Self-love and Vanity ever pursue,
With Crests high-exalted; and, clearer than Glass,
Leaky Faith, like a Sieve, letting every thing pass.

J. D.

ODE XIX. An Invocation to Venus.

Paraphrased by William Congreve, Esq.

1.

The Tyrant Queen of soft Desires,
With the resistless Aid of sprightly Wine
And wanton Ease, conspires
To make my Heart its Peace resign,
And re-admit Love's long-rejected Fires.
For beauteous Glycera I burn;
The Flames so long repell'd, with double Force return:
Matchless her Face appears, and shines more bright
Than polish'd Marble, when reflecting Light.
Her very Coyness warms;
And with a grateful Sullenness she charms:
Each Look darts forth a thousand Rays,
Whose Lustre an unwary Sight betrays:
My Eye-balls swim, and I grow giddy while I gaze.

2.

She comes! she comes! She rushes in my Veins!
At once all Venus enters, and at large she reigns!
Cyprus no more with her Abode is blest;
I am her Palace, and her Throne my Breast.
Of savage Scythian Arms no more I write,
Or Parthian Archers, who in flying fight,
And make rough War their Sport.
Such idle Themes no more shall move,
Nor any thing but what's of high Import;
And what's of high Import but Love?
Vervain, and Gums, and the green Turf prepare:
With Wine of two Years old your Cups be fill'd:
After our Sacrifice and Pray'r,
The Goddess may incline her Heart to yield.

ODE XX. To Mæcenas.

1

Mæcenas! still content to shine
Among the Knights, expect not at my Board
A copious Bowl, or better Wine
Than what my native Sabine Hills afford.

2

Seal'd by myself, my Cask began
To mellow, when the Pit so loudly crown'd
Your Merit, that Mount Vatican,
And Tyber's sportful Echo caught the Sound.

3

In your rich Jars the racy Juice
Of every costly Grape refines:
My Cups no Tribute can produce
Or from the Formian or Falernian Vines.

ODE XXI. An Hymn to Apollo and Diana.

Choir of Youths.
Ye blooming Virgins! sing Diana's Praise.

Choir of Virgins.
Your Voice, ye Boys! to graceful Phœbus raise.

The Two Choirs.
Let fair Latona be our Theme,
The darling Choice of Jove supreme.

Choir of Youths.
Ye Maids! chaste Cynthia sing, in silver Floods
Who loves to bathe, and haunts the shady Woods;
The Woods, that Algidus and Cragus crown,
And Erymanthus' lofty Head imbrown!

Choir of Virgins.
Ye noble Youths! extoll, in equal Strains,
Delicious Tempe's ever-verdant Plains:
Fair Delos sing, whence great Apollo sprung,
The Harp and Quiver on his Shoulder hung.

DUETTO.

Virgins.
He, by your Pray'rs,

Boys.
And She by yours, o'ercome,

Both.
On Britons and on Parthians, Foes of Rome,
Shall turn from Cæsar and his People far,
The Scourge of Famine, Pestilence, and War.

ODE XXII. To Aristius Fuscus.

By S. J.

The Man, my Friend, whose conscious Heart
With Virtue's sacred Ardour glows,
Nor taints with Death th'envenom'd Dart,
Nor needs the Guard of Moorish Bows.

O'er icy Caucasus he treads,
Or torrid Afric's faithless Sands,
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads
His liquid Wealth thro' barbarous Lands.

For while in Sabine Forests, charm'd
By Lalagé, too far I stray'd,
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A furious Wolf approach'd, and fled.

No Beast more dreadful ever stain'd
Apulia's spacious Wilds with Gore;
No Beast more fierce Numidia's Land,
The Lion's thirsty Parent, bore.

Place me where no soft Summer Gale
Among the quivering Branches sighs,
Where Clouds, condens'd, for ever veil
With horrid Gloom the frowning Skies:

Place me beneath the burning Zone,
A Clime deny'd to human Race;
My Flame for Lalagé I'll own;
Her Voice and Smiles my Song shall grace.

The Same Ode Paraphrased. By John Hughes, Esq;

[Hence, slavish Fear! thy Stygian Wings display]

1.

Hence, slavish Fear! thy Stygian Wings display:
Thou ugly Fiend of Hell, away!
Wrapp'd in thick Clouds, and Shades of Night,
To conscious Souls direct thy Flight;
There brood on Guilt; fix there a loath'd Embrace,
And propagate vain Terrors, Frights,
Dreams, Goblins, and imagin'd Sprights,
Thy visionary Tribe, thy black and monstrous Race!
Go, haunt the Slave that stains his Hands in Gore,
Possess the perjur'd Mind, and rack the Usurer more
Than his Oppression did the Poor before.

2.

Vainly, ye feeble Wretches, you prepare
The glittering Forgery of War;
The poison'd Shaft, the Parthian Bow, and Spear,
Like that the warlike Moor is wont to wield,
Which, pois'd and guided from his Ear,
He hurls impetuous thro' the Field;
In vain you lace the Helm, and heave in vain the Shield;
He's only safe, whose Armour of Defence
Is adamantine Innocence.

3.

If o'er the steepy Alps he go,
Vast Mountains of eternal Snow,
Or where fam'd Ganges and Hydaspes flow;
If o'er parch'd Lybia's desart Land,
Where, threatening from afar,
Th'affrighted Traveller
Encounters moving Hills of Sand:
No Sense of Danger can disturb his Rest,
He fears no human Face, nor savage Beast;
Impenetrable Courage steels his manly Breast.

4.

Thus, late within the Sabine Grove,
While, free from Care, and full of Love,

I raise my tuneful Voice, and stray,
Regardless of myself and Way,
A grizly Wolf, with glaring Eye,
View'd me unarm'd, yet pass'd unhurtful by.
A fiercer Monster ne'er, in Quest of Food,
Apulian Forests did molest;
Numidia never saw a more prodigious Beast;
Numidia, Mother of the tawny Brood,
Where the stern Lion shakes his knotted Mane,
And roars aloud for Prey, and scours the spacious Plain.

5.

Place me where no soft Breeze of Summer Wind
Did e'er the stiffen'd Soil unbind,
Where no refreshing Warmth e'er durst invade,
But Winter holds his unmolested Seat,
In all his hoary Robes array'd,
And rattling Storms of Hail, and noisy Tempests beat.
Place me beneath the scorching Blaze
Of the fierce Sun's immediate Rays,
Where House or Cottage ne'er were seen,
Nor rooted Plant, nor Tree, nor springing Green,

Yet, lovely Lalagé, my generous Flame
Shall ne'er expire; I'll boldly sing of thee,
Charm'd with the Music of thy Name,
And guarded by the Gods of Love and Poetry.

ODE XXIII. To Cloe.

By J. C.

1

Thou fly'st me, like the tripping Hind
Her fearful Dam pursuing
O'er devious Hills: The Woods, the Wind,
The quivering Bushes threaten Ruin.

2

If vernal Gales but gently breathe
Amid the thorny Brake;
Or if green Lizzards, underneath,
Among the Boughs a Rustling make,

3

Strait pit-a-pat's its little Heart;
Its trembling Limbs keep Measure:
But, Cloë, why this frantic Start,
For Injury mistaking Pleasure?

4

No Tyger, nor a Lion, I;
Then cease thy Mother's Steps to trace,
Nor coyly from thy Horace fly,
Now ripe the Bridal Bed to grace.

ODE XXIV. To Virgil.

On the Death of Quintilius Varus.

What Shame, what Bounds can Sorrow know,
While Tears for such a Friend so justly flow?
Melpomené! my Song inspire,
Who shar'st from Jove the melting Voice and Lyre.

Lies then Quintilius wrapt in Night;
And have eternal Slumbers clos'd his Sight?
O! when shall Truth and Modesty,
And each domestic Grace, his Equal see?
Lamented by his Friends he died;
But Virgil's Grief supplies the fullest Tide.
Could You inspire the magic Song
Like Orpheus, who drew list'ning Oaks along;
Or sing more sweetly o'er his Urn,
Yet would not to his Ashes Life return!
When Mercury, with dreaded Wand,
Has driv'n the Shade to join the sable Band,
To move the God our Pray'rs are vain;
For ever lock'd the Gates of Death remain.
Tho' hard; her Balm let Patience pour,
To mollify the Wound she cannot cure.

ODE XXV. To Lydia.

1

Now the gay Tribe of wanton Youths
Less frequently thy Windows tap,
Nor break thy Rest; and thy still Door
Cleaves to the Threshold;

2

Which once was wont with Ease to move
The Hinge. Now less and less is heard;
‘While Lydia sleeps the live-long Night,
‘Wakeful I languish.’

3

Now in thy Turn, grown old, thou mourn'st
Thy Lovers lost; loosely array'd
Ply'st in dark Allies, whilst the North
Whistles around thee;

4

And burning Love, and loathsom Lust,
Such as the madding Fillies fires,

Still in thy canker'd Liver rage;
Vainly repining,

5

That vigorous Youth, with Ivy green
Delighted, and with Myrtle Wreaths,
The wither'd Herbs to Hebrus doom,
Friend of the Winter.

ODE XXVI. To the Muse.

Lov'd by the Muses, to the Wind
Be all my Griefs and Fears resign'd,
To drown them in the Cretan Main;
Quite careless I, what Tyrants reign;
Or what beneath the Northern Sphere
Excites the Parthian Monarch's Fear.

Rejoicing in th'untasted Spring,
Hither thy sunny Garlands bring,
O Muse! and choicest Fragrance shed
Around my much-lov'd Lamia's Head.
No Honour can my Strains impart,
Unless thy Breathings warm my Heart.
Thee it becomes, and all the Choir,
For Him to string the Lesbian Lyre;
And to immortalize, in Lays
Divinely new, his worthy Praise!

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Let Fortune and the Muse be kind]

Inscribed to the Rev. Mr. Dyer.

Let Fortune and the Muse be kind,
And smile upon my Strain,
I give my Sorrows to the Wind,
Or bid old Medway bear them to the Main.

Let Armies march, or Squadrons sail,
No Gallic Threats I fear,
Let me but range this flowery Vale,
And catch the Lowing of that distant Steer.

Or thro' yon Meadow let me stray,
With new-shorn Fleeces white,
And meditate the rural Lay
Of him, who sung on Grongar's woodland Height.

Round him Rome's Genius, rouz'd from Sleep,
Has bid that Ivy bloom,
Which decks some Temple's mouldring Heap,
Or clings with clasping Arms to Virgil's Tomb.

Those Honours which to Greece's Bard
Were once by Plato shown,
Shall Britain give, and soon reward,
Her Poet's Labours with a woollen Crown.

1756.

J. D.

ODE XXVII. To his Companions.

1

With Glasses form'd for jovial Joy,
Let rough untutor'd Thracians fight;
Far hence remove that barbarous Rite;
Nor modest Bacchus with your Brawls annoy.

2

My Friends, your impious Clamours cease;
Rage, and the glittering Persian Sword,
But ill with Lamps and Wine accord—
Let every Man resume his former Place.

3

Expect you that the Glass go round?
Then let Megilla's Brother tell,
By what enchanting Maid he fell,
And from whose Eyes receiv'd his happy Wound.

4

Do you this easy Task decline?
Whatever Nymph your Bosom tames,
You glow with no ignoble Flames—
I swear then I'll not taste this heady Wine.

5

Whoe'er she be, to my safe Ear
The Secret trust.—Ah wretched Youth!
How wide I wander'd from the Truth,
Thoughtless the Name of such a Jilt to hear.

6

What Sorceress with Thessalian Charms,
What magic Art, or heavenly Pow'r,
Can thy lost Liberty restore,
And free thee from this Monster's fatal Arms?

ODE XXVIII. A Dialogue between the Ghost of Archytas and a Mariner.

Mariner.
Tho' skill'd to measure Sea and Land,
And to compute th'unnumber'd Grains of Sand;
Now scanty Dust is scatter'd o'er
Thy Limbs, Archytas, on Apulia's Shore;
Nor could, to travel thro' the Sky,
And grasp the Pole, avail thee, doom'd to die!

Archytas.
E'en Pelops' mighty Father died,
Who feasted Gods, and was to Gods ally'd:
Tithonus died, Aurora's Care;
Tho' borne by her thro' pathless Tracks of Air:
And the same Fate did Minos prove,
Who shar'd the Counsels of immortal Jove.
The Realms below again restrain
Pythagoras, tho' vent'rous to maintain,

By the known Shield Euphorbus bore
At Ilium's Siege, that he had liv'd before,
And yielded to the Grave alone
His Skin and Nerves; a Sage, whom You will own
In Truth and Nature deeply read.
But All the gloomy Paths of Death must tread;
Life's little Day in endless Night
Must close. The Furies savage Mars delight
With the dire Show of Soldiers slain;
While Sailors perish in the greedy Main.
Of Old and Young, see! Thousands die;
No Head from cruel Proserpine can fly.
Me, too, black Auster's stormy Breath,
Orion setting, 'whelm'd with watry Death.
But on my Bones and naked Head,
O! fail not thou, some floating Sand to spread;
So may the Tempest spare the Floods,
And waste its Fury on Apulian Woods!
And righteous Jove, and Ocean's Power,
Who watchful guards Tarentum's sacred Tower,
Securely from each foreign Shore,
With large Increase convey thy costly Store.
Perhaps thou wilt not dread a Crime,
For which thy Sons shall smart in future Time:

But may the Gods retort on Thee,
By the same Pains, thy proud Contempt of Me!
My Curse will reach the heavenly Throne;
This flagrant Crime no Victims shall atone.
Tho' Commerce beckons thee away,
(This pious Care will cause no long Delay),
Three times the Dust around me throw,
And Winds propitious on thy Sails shall blow!

J. D

104

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Say, dearest Villiers, poor departed Friend, ]

By Matthew Prior, Esq;

Inscribed to the Memory of the Hon. Colonel George Villiers, drowned in the River Piava, in the Country of Friuli.

Say, dearest Villiers, poor departed Friend,
Since fleeting Life thus suddenly must end;
Say, what did all thy busy Hopes avail,
That anxious thou from Pole to Pole didst sail;
Ere on thy Chin the springing Beard began
To spread a doubtful Down, and promise Man?
What profited thy Thoughts, and Toils, and Cares,
In Vigour more confirm'd, and riper Years?

105

To wake ere Morning-dawn to loud Alarms;
And march till Close of Night in heavy Arms?
To scorn the Summer Suns and Winter Snows;
And search thro' every Clime thy Country's Foes?
That thou might'st Fortune to thy Side engage;
That gentle Peace might quell Bellona's Rage,
And Anna's Bounty crown her Soldier's hoary Age?

In vain we think that free-will'd Man has Power,
To hasten or protract th'appointed Hour.
Our Term of Life depends not on our Deed;
Before our Birth our Funeral was decreed.
Nor aw'd by Foresight, nor misled by Chance,
Imperious Death directs his Ebon Lance,
Peoples great Henry's Tombs, and leads up Holbein's Dance.

Alike must every State and every Age
Sustain the universal Tyrant's Rage:
For neither William's Power, nor Mary's Charms,
Could or repell, or pacify his Arms.
Young Churchill fell, as Life began to bloom;
And Bradford's trembling Age expects the Tomb.
Wisdom and Eloquence in vain would plead
One Moment's Respite for the learned Head.
Judges of Writings and of Men have died;
Mæcenas, Sackville, Socrates, and Hyde;

106

And in their various Turns the Sons must tread
Those gloomy Journeys, which their Sires have led.

The ancient Sage, who did so long maintain,
That Bodies die, but Souls return again,
With all the Births and Deaths he had in Store,
Went out Pythagoras, and came no more.
And modern Asgill, whose capricious Thought
Is yet with Stores of wilder Notions fraught;
Too soon convinc'd, shall yield that fleeting Breath,
Which play'd so idly with the Darts of Death.

Some from the stranded Vessel force their Way;
Fearful of Fate, they meet it in the Sea:
Some, who escape the Fury of the Wave,
Sicken on Earth, and sink into a Grave.
In Journeys, or at home; in War or Peace;
By Hardships Many, Many fall by Ease.
Each changing Season does its Poison bring;
Rheums chill the Winter, Agues blast the Spring;
Wet, Dry, Cold, Hot, at the appointed Hour,
All act subservient to the Tyrant's Power;
And, when obedient Nature knows his Will,
A Fly, a Grape-stone, or a Hair can kill,

For restless Proserpine for ever treads,
In Paths unseen, o'er our devoted Heads;

107

And, on the spacious Land, and liquid Main,
Spreads slow Disease, or darts afflictive Pain;
Variety of Deaths confirms her endless Reign.

On curs'd Piava's Banks the Goddess stood;
Show'd her dire Warrant to the rising Flood;
When, whom I long must love, and long must mourn,
With fatal Speed was urging his Return;
In his dear Country to disperse his Care,
And arm himself by Rest for future War;
To chide his anxious Friends' officious Fears,
And promise to their Joys his elder Years.

O destin'd Head, and O severe Decree!
Nor native Country thou, nor Friend shalt see;
Nor War hast thou to wage, nor Year to come;
Impending Death is thine, and instant Doom.

Hark! the imperious Goddess is obey'd;
Winds murmur, Snows descend, and Waters spread:
O Kinsman, Friend!—O! vain are all the Cries
Of human Voice, strong Destiny replies;
Weep you on Earth; for he shall sleep below:
Thence none return; and thither all must go.

Whoe'er thou art, whom Choice or Business leads
To this sad River, or the neighbouring Meads;

108

If thou may'st happen on the dreary Shores
To find the Object which this Verse deplores;
Cleanse the pale Corps, with a religious Hand,
From the polluting Weed and common Sand;
Lay the dead Hero graceful in a Grave,
The only Honour he can now receive;
And fragrant Mould upon his Body throw,
And plant the Warrior Laurel o'er his Brow:
Light lie the Earth, and flourish green the Bough!

So may just Heaven secure thy future Life
From foreign Dangers, and domestic Strife:
And when th'infernal Judge's dismal Power
From the dark Urn shall throw Thy destin'd Hour;
When yielding to the Sentence, breathless Thou
And pale shalt lie, as what thou buriest now;
May some kind Friend the piteous Object see,
And equal Rites perform to that, which once was Thee!

1703.

109

ODE XXIX. To Iccius, a Philosopher.

Does then my Iccius' craving Breast
Envy the Wealth of Araby the blest;
And will he boldly take the Field
Against Sabæa's King, untaught to yield;
With fix'd Resolve the dreadful Mede,
His Slave, in Chains triumphantly to lead.
What Virgin shall Your Will obey,
Her Lover slain, and own Your sovereign Sway?
What courtly Boy, with scented Hair,
Shall at Your Board the brimming Goblet bear,
Skilful, from his paternal Bow,
With Indian Arrow to transfix the Foe?

110

Now Rivers, sure, may backward bend,
And Tyber to his Fountain-head ascend;
Since You an Equipage prepare,
(Who promis'd better Things) and seek the War;
Your Plato and Panætius yield,
(So dearly bought) to grasp th'Iberian Shield.

111

The Same Ode Imitated.

[And has my Friend, uncheck'd by Fear]

To the Hon. W. H.

And has my Friend, uncheck'd by Fear,
With Braddock sail'd, a Volunteer,
And cross'd th'Atlantic Ocean;
Resolv'd to chase th'encroaching Gaul,
And on the Ohio's Banks to fall,
Or rise to quick Promotion!

What plume-crown'd Sachem, great in Arms,
What Nymph, renown'd for sable Charms,
Is Prisoner in your Tent?
How oft War's Kettle have you boil'd?
What rich Plantations have you spoil'd?
What Scalps to England sent?

What captive Youth behind your Chair
At Dinner waits, or trims your Hair;
Taught from his earliest Years
To speed the Arrow from the Bow;
Or, at the Bear, or British Foe,
To launch unerring Spears?

112

Sure now Ontario's boisterous Lake
His ancient Channel may forsake;
Or Niagara's Fall
Stop short; or solemn Leagues may bind
(Much stranger still!) th'ambitious Mind
Of Treaty-breaking Gaul;

Since You, my Friend, have thus elop'd,
And, tho' some rich Cathedral hop'd
To call you soon her Own,
Have chang'd the College for the Field,
To Bland made Clarke and Barrow yield,
And to the Sword the Gown.

1755.

J. D.

113

ODE XXX. To Venus.

1

O Venus! whose propitious Care
Thy Cnidus and thy Paphos share,
Forsake thy favour'd Cyprian Plain,
To visit now the decent Fane
Of Glycera; whose Frankincense invites,
High-pil'd, thy Presence at her humble Rites.

2

Each Grace attending on her Queen,
Array'd in flowing Robes, be seen;
And let the Nymphs approach with thee,
Thy glowing Boy and Mercury,
With Youth's blithe Goddess, ever wont to prove
Joyless and rude, if unrefin'd by Love.

114

The Same Ode Imitated In the Person of General Ch---ll.

By Dr. Broxholm.

1

O Venus! Joy of Men and Gods,
Forsake, for once, thy blest Abodes,
And deign to visit my Land;
Quit Paphos and the Cyprian Isle,
On thy fond Votary kindly smile,
And come to my Duck Island.

2

Thee, Goddess, Thee, my Prayers invoke;
To Thee alone my Altars smoke;

115

O treat me not with Rigour:
Thy wanton Son bring with thee too,
My dying Embers to renew,
And give me back my Vigour.

3

Bring, too, the Graces to my Arms,
Girls that are prodigal of Charms,
Of every Favour lavish:
Yielding and melting let them be;
Consider I am sixty-three,
And that's no Age to ravish.

4

Let jocund Health attend thy Train,
Much wanted by thy crazy Swain;
And, gentle Venus, pr'ythee,
To crown thy Gifts, and ease my Pain,
(Since Ward has labour'd long in vain)
Let Mercury come with thee.

116

ODE XXXI. To Apollo.

What Boon, at Phœbus' hallow'd Shrine,
Requires his Bard, while this Year's Wine
He pours from Chargers? Not the Grain,
Enriching fair Sardinia's Plain;
Nor asks he for the Herds that feed
In hot Calabria's fertile Mead;
For Gold and Indian Ivory;
Nor for the grateful Fields that lie
Where Liris, with his silent Waves,
(Slow-gliding Stream!) the Border laves.
Let others prune Calenian Vines,
And the rich Merchant drink his Wines
In golden Cups; for Syrian Ware
Purchas'd: For he, three times a Year,
Or four, sails o'er th'Atlantic Flood,
Unhurt and dear to every God!
Mallows I taste, and Succhory;
And Olives are a Feast to Me!—

117

Offspring of Jove! I ask no more
Than to enjoy my present Store;
With Body sound, and Mind entire,
Decent in Age to wake the Lyre!

118

ODE XXXII. To his Harp.

1

If the soft Verse, and warbling Strain,
Which I with Thee have careless play'd,
O Harp! beneath the chequer'd Shade,
May this whole Year, and many more remain;

2

To Latian Song adapt thy Sound,
First by the tuneful Lesbian taught,
In Battle, tho' he fearless fought,
Or moor'd the storm-toss'd Vessel to the Ground:

119

3

To Bacchus and the Muses' Choir;
To Venus, and the Boy that flies
Close by her Side, and Lycus' Eyes
Black as his Hair, he tun'd the various Lyre.

4

O Grace of Phœbus! Ease of Care!
Sweet Shell! at the celestial Feast
Of Jove himself a welcome Guest,
Whene'er I call, attend thy Poet's Prayer!

J. D.

ODE XXXIII. To Albius Tibullus.

1

Indulge not thus thy endless Grief
In Elegiac Strain;
No more, that Glycera to thine
Prefers a younger Lover's Arms, complain.

120

2

For Cyrus, see! Lycoris, grac'd
With slender Forehead, burns;
For Pholoë he; but Goats shall join
With savage Wolves, ere she his Love returns.

3

So Venus wills; who oft, beneath
Her brazen Yoke, unites
Unequal Forms, unequal Minds,
And in their Torture cruelly delights.

4

I, tho' a Maid of noble Birth
Address'd me, yet adore
Fair low-born Myrtalé, more fierce
Than Waves that dash the rough Calabrian Shore.

J. D.

121

ODE XXXIV.

[Misled before by Wisdom vain]

Misled before by Wisdom vain,
I rarely visited the Fane,
Devious from Truth!—But now, by Force,
Must shift my Sails, and steer another Course.
Since Jove himself, the Sire of Day,
Who darts, by Nature's Law, his Ray
From opening Clouds, his Steeds has driven,
And rolling Car, thro' Tracts of azure Heaven.
Hence the brute Earth, and all her Floods,
Th'astonish'd Manes' dread Abodes,

122

And mighty Atlas' utmost Bound,
Trembled!—The God is able to confound
The purple Pride of regal Might,
And lift the Low to Honour's Height:
Fortune with loud-clapp'd Wings tore down
From thence; and here delights to place the Crown!

124

ODE XXXV. To Fortune.

O goddess! whose propitious Sway
Thy Antium's favourite Sons obey;
Whose Voice from Depth of Woe recalls
The Wretch; and Triumphs turns to Funerals:

From Thee, rich Crops the needy Swain
Implores: Thee, Sovereign of the Main,
The Mariner invokes, who braves,
In a Bithynian Bark, the Cretan Waves:

Thee, Scythians, wandering far and near,
And unrelenting Dacians, fear:
The warlike Sons of Italy;
Cities, and Realms, and Empires, worship Thee.

Mothers of barbarous Monarchs dread,
And purple Tyrants, lest thou tread
With spurning Foot, and scatter round
The sculptur'd Column on th'encumber'd Ground;

125

And lest the fickle Crowd should break
Their Bonds; and with loud Clamours wake
The Peaceful, to assert their Right
By Force of Arms, and quell usurping Might.

Ruthless Necessity prepares
The Way for Thee; and ever bears
Huge Nails, in her strong Hands of Brass,
The Wedge, the Hook, and Lead's hot molten Mass.

Thee Hope, and white-rob'd Faith, adore,
So rarely found!—She, when no more
Thou smil'st, attends the fallen Great,
Stript of his gay Attire and stately Seat.

But venal Crowds and Harlots fly:
And, if the flowing Casks are dry,
When to the Dregs the Wine they drink,
From Friendship's Yoke the false Associates shrink.

Thy Aid for Cæsar Rome implores;
Conduct him safe to Britain's Shores,
The Limits of the World; and lead
Our new-rais'd Bands against the trembling Mede!

Alas! we mourn our Crimes, our Scars,
And Brethren slain in Civil Wars:

126

How oft have Roman Youth embru'd
Their savage Hands in Streams of social Blood!

What has this Iron Age not dar'd?
What Gods rever'd? what Altars spar'd?
O! point again the blunted Steel,
And let the Massagete our Vengeance feel!

J. D.

129

ODE XXXVI. On the Return of Numida from Spain.

1

'Tis just, 'tis joyful, now to pay
To each auspicious guardian God
Of Numida, the Heifer's votive Blood;
With Frankincense, and many a tuneful Lay.

130

2

He, from Iberia's farthest Shore
Return'd, of all his lov'd Compeers
Clasps Lamia most, with whom his youthful Years
He spent, and first the Gown of Manhood wore.

3

Then mark this happy Day with White!
And Casks of generous Liquor bring;
Advancing, ceaseless, in a jovial Ring,
Beat quick the Ground, and form the Salian Rite.

4

Bassus shall Damalis o'ercome,
And drain the Goblet at a Draught:
To chear the Feast be long-liv'd Parsley brought,
Join'd with the Rose and Lilly's transient Bloom.

5

Now all the Youths, inflam'd with Wine,
With gloating Eyes your Mistress view;
But Damalis, to her new Lover true,
Hangs on his Neck, as Ivy clasps the Vine.

J. D.

131

ODE XXXVII. Occasioned by the Sea-fight near Actium,

In which Antony and Cleopatra were defeated by Augustus.

Now is the Time the Bowl to drain;
The Time to dance upon the Plain;
The Statues of the Gods to place
On Pallets, and with holy Banquets grace!

132

For impious had it been before,
To broach our rich Cæcubian Store,
While the mad Queen, with Pride elate,
Menac'd the Capitol and Roman State:

Attended by th'enervate Band
Of hapless Youths, by Steel unmann'd,
Unbounded Empire was her Scope,
Grasping at all with visionary Hope;

Drunk with Prosperity!—But soon
Her Rage subsides with Fortune's Frown;
When scarce a Ship from Flames was sav'd,
No longer then the Roman Power she brav'd.

Reduc'd to Sense, a real Fright
She felt; and shunn'd by timely Flight
The near Approach of Cæsar's Oars,
To reach her last Retreat, th'Ægyptian Shores.

As the staunch Hound the Hare pursues
O'er snow-clad Hæmon's tainted Dews,
Or by the Hawk the Dove is chas'd;
So Cæsar flies behind with rapid Haste,

In Chains to drag th'enchanting Pest:
But, with no female Fears possest,

133

She dreaded nothing but Disgrace,
Resolv'd to perish worthy of her Race!

And, rather than be led along,
(Derided by the shouting Throng)
A Royal Slave; she chose to go
A glorious Victim to the Shades below!

A Woman of no common Mold!
For see! deliberately bold,
With Face serene she dares to grasp
And stimulate to Rage the dreadful Asp;

That his black Poison he may drain,
With greater Speed, thro' every Vein:
Scorning to grace the Triumph's Pride,
A Queen she liv'd, and like a Queen she died!

136

ODE XXXVIII. To his Boy.

1

I hate the Pride of Persia's Taste,
And Wreaths, with Rind of Linden grac'd;
Boy, ask not where the tardy Rose,
Secure from blighting Winter, blows.

2

Plain Myrtle Wreaths alone provide,
Nor studious search for aught beside;
Myrtle will suit thy Brow and mine,
Drinking beneath th'embowering Vine.

The Same Ode.

[I hate, my Boy, the Persian Pride]

By a Lady.

1

I hate, my Boy, the Persian Pride;
Eternal Greens in Garlands tied:
And for the Rose thy Search forbear,
To crop the latest of the Year.

137

2

To simple Myrtle stand confin'd;
'Tis fit the Servant's Brows to bind;
'Tis fit the Master's Brows to twine,
Who drinks beneath the shady Vine.

The END of the First Book.

139

THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

141

TO Isaac Hawkins Browne, Esq; This Second Book OF THE ODES of HORACE Is Inscribed BY His affectionate and obliged Humble Servant, The Editor.

143

ODE I. To Caïus Asinius Pollio.

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.

225

THE THIRD BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

227

TO The Rev. John Green, D.D. Master of the Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, AND Dean of Lincoln, This Third Book OF THE ODES of HORACE Is Inscribed BY His most obedient, and humble Servant, The Editor.

229

Prologue.

[I hate the Vulgar, a licentious Throng!]

I hate the Vulgar, a licentious Throng!
Be still: To Maids and Youths my Lays belong:
The Muses' Priest with due Attention own,
Who sings in Strains to Roman Ears unknown!

ODE I.

[Kings rule their Flocks with awful Sway]

Inscribed to John Duncombe, Esq; of Stocks, in the County of Hertford, the Translator's Brother.

Kings rule their Flocks with awful Sway;
Yet Kings themselves must Jove obey:

230

The Spoils of conquer'd Giants crown the God,
And all Things tremble at his sovereign Nod!
Th'Ambitious try, by various Arts,
To bribe, and win the People's Hearts:
One Candidate his large Possessions grace;
Another sues, distinguish'd by his Race:
On Fame and Morals this relies;
That, throng'd with Clients, claims the Prize:
But Death shall level All; for each Man's Name
Is rolling in the Urn's capacious Frame.
The Wretch who views, with conscious Dread,
A Sword hang threat'ning o'er his Head,
Starves, tho' Sicilian Banquets crown the Board,
Nor softest Strains can balmy Sleep afford;
Yet will not balmy Sleep disdain
The Cottage of the humble Swain;
Nor the cool Grove; nor Tempé's happy Vales,
Still gently fann'd by Zephyr's genial Gales.
He, who can curb his wild Desires,
Nor more, than Nature asks, requires,
Beholds Arcturus set, devoid of Fear,
Nor trembles when the stormy Goats appear;
Repines not, when his Vines with Hail
Are struck, or blighted Harvests fail;

231

Or that his drooping Orchards now complain
Of Summer's Heat, and now of Winter's Rain.
Not so the Man, by high-rais'd Moles
Confining ev'n the finny Shoals
To narrower Bounds; for, see the crowded Shore
By Builders seiz'd, where Waves were heard to roar.
The Lord, disdainful of the Land,
Bids the wild Billows leave the Strand;
But could his lofty Turrets reach the Sky,
Yet Menaces and Fears would mount as high.
Care climbs the brazen Vessel's Sides,
Behind the flying Horseman rides;
Nor quits th'applauded Consul's gilded Car,
Marching triumphant from the finish'd War.
Then since nor stately Domes, nor Wealth,
Can yield Content, or purchase Health;
Since purple Robes, which gay as Phosphor shine,
The Spice of Araby, Falernian Wine,
And Persian Odors, can impart
No Balm to heal a wounded Heart;
Why should I wish to rear a stately Pile
On Phrygian Pillars, in the modern Style,
Gaz'd at with Envy? or to change
My Vale, where Flocks and Heifers range,

232

And quit my rural Ease, and Sabine Seat,
For the more cumb'rous Riches of the Great?

1720.

236

The Same Ode Imitated.

[I hate the common Herd: Hence, ye Profane!—]

By Barton Booth, Esq,

I hate the common Herd: Hence, ye Profane!—
Ye silent uncorrupted Train,
Virgins and blooming Youths, attend my Lyre!
Lo! great Apollo's sacred Choir,
With Strains unheard before, their Priest inspire.
Empires mighty Monarchs sway:
Those mighty Monarchs Jove obey:
He bends the Heavens with his Imperial Nod;
Prostrate the Giants fall, and own the Conqueror God!

Some the first Post of Honour claim,
Proud of their Birth and ancient Name;
Rivall'd by those, whose wide-spread Furrows bear
The various Harvest of the Year:
Vain is their Contest, vain their Boast;
In Death is all Distinction lost—
While, o'er the impious Courtier's Head
Threatening, aloft the Dagger hung,

237

In vain the costly Feast was spread,
In vain the tuneful Minstrel sung:
Sleep weighs his Eyelids down no more,
Nor Philomel's sweet Strains his murder'd Peace restore.

Lolling at Ease, in humble Cells,
Gentle Morpheus ever dwells;
Or by the hoary Forest's Side,
Or where the murmuring Waters glide—
Seek what Nature can suffice,
And fearless view the troubled Shore,
When the black Tempest veils the Skies,
And the tumultuous Surges roar—

Whither, at length, will human Pride aspire!
The Great their Fathers' Palaces disdain,
Encumb'ring with vast Towers the Main:
From the contracted Latian Shore,
Old Ocean's various Broods retire,
And distant, and more spacious Seas explore—
Go, climb thy lofty Argo's Side,
Or trust thy Courser's swift Career;
Or in thy marble Towers confide;
Vain is thy Flight, alas! from Care;
There's no Retreat, proud Man! from Guilt and Fear.

238

Since, then, fair Peace and Innocence,
Disdaining Pomp, and Power, and Pride,
United shed their sweetest Influence,
Where artless Maids and lab'ring Hinds reside,
Grant my Desire, a homely Seat,
Far from the Guilty and the Great;
A limpid Stream, an ancient Grove;
And Health and Joy to her I love;
Grant my Desire, propitious Jove!

Digression to his Wife, formerly Miss St. Loe.

Happy the Hour, when first our Souls were join'd!
The social Virtues, and the chearful Mind,
Have ever crown'd our Days, beguil'd our Pain,
Strangers to Discord, and her clamorous Train.
Connubial Friendship, hail! But haste away;
The Lark and Nightingale reproach thy Stay:
From splendid Theatres to rural Scenes
Joyous retire—So bounteous Heaven ordains!
There we may dwell in Peace;
There bless the rising Morn, and flowery Field,
Charm'd with the guileless Sports the Woods and Waters yield!

239

In our dear Country's Cause to die
Is glorious; nor can they, who fly,
Escape; for Fate, more swift than Fear,
Pursuing, strikes them in the Rear;
With dreadful Groans they bite the Ground,
Their Backs transfix'd with many a Wound.

240

No base Repulse can Virtue know;
Her Honours unpolluted flow:
The Crowd nor gives, nor takes away,
The splendid Fasces of her Sway;
Thro' Paths untrod she mounts on high,
And to her Votaries points the Sky;
Disdainful spurns the sordid Clay,
And soars to Realms of endless Day!

Nor less the Gods reward the Just,
Tenacious of their secret Trust.
Who Ceres' Rites presumes to tell,
With Me should never sail, or dwell:
For oft' the Good and Wicked prove
One common Lot from angry Jove.
Where Guilt precedes, 'tis rare to find
That halting Vengeance lags behind.

J. D.

242

ODE III.

[The Man resolv'd, and firmly just]

The Man resolv'd, and firmly just,
Adheres, unshaken, to his Trust,
Tho' loudly rage his factious Foes,
And tho' a Tyrant's Threats oppose;
Tho', Mountain-high, the Billows roll,
And Lightnings flash from Pole to Pole;
Nor would the Wreck his Mind appall,
Should the whole World to swift Destruction fall.
To Heaven, by Virtues great as these,
Fam'd Pollux rose, and Hercules;
Amidst whose Feasts, with rosy Lips,
The nectar'd Bowl Augustus sips.
Thus too rose Bacchus, in his Car
By Tygers drawn, untaught to bear
The Yoke; and thus, on Mars's Steeds,
Our Romulus escap'd the Stygian Meads:
Then, in Olympus' high Abodes,
Thus Juno spoke, and pleas'd the Gods:

243

A foreign Bride, and an unjust
Adulterous Umpire, laid in Dust
The Trojan Towers, condemn'd by Me,
And Wisdom's injur'd Deity,
What time their impious Monarch dar'd
Deny two Gods their promis'd due Reward.
No longer, deck'd with every Grace,
Shines Helen's shameless Guest; the Race
Of Priam now no more in Fight
O'erpower the Greeks, by Hector's Might:
By us protracted, with the Wars,
My Hatred ends; I yield to Mars
That Son, whom, on the Latian Shore,
Of Trojan Race, a Royal Priestess bore.
These shining Mansions let him gain,
Nectareous Goblets let him drain,
And, in the Realms of endless Rest,
Share all the Pleasures of the Blest.
O'er any Region, uncontroul'd,
These Exiles may Dominion hold,
While Ocean severs Troy from Rome:
While Herds shall browze on perjur'd Paris' Tomb,
Or, there, wild Beasts their Young shall hide,
So long the Capitolian Pride

244

Shall last; and warlike Rome impose
Laws on her conquer'd Parthian Foes.
Her Name, to Earth's Extremity,
Dreadful shall sound; both where the Sea
Europe from Africa divides,
And where the Nile o'erflows with fruitful Tides.
With Truth, and untaught Virtue bold;
Upright to scorn the Charms of Gold,
And let it innocently shine,
And sleep, unransack'd, in the Mine.
Let ev'n the World's remotest Bound
Re-echo with their Trumpets' Sound,
Where endless Summers parch the Plain,
Or where the Clouds o'erflow with endless Rain.
But on these Terms alone, their Claim
I grant to universal Fame;
That never, with too pious Care,
Troy's ancient Ruins they repair:
For Troy, rebuilt with Omens dire,
Again shall be involv'd in Fire,
While I, Jove's Wife and Sister, lead
The conquering Bands, and urge the glorious Deed.
Tho' thrice should rise the brazen Wall,
By Phœbus built, it thrice should fall

245

By Grecian Force; and thrice a Son
Or Husband slain, the Wives bemoan—
This Strain ill suits my lighter String;
Cease, daring Muse! forbear to sing
The Words of Gods; nor dare to wrong
This lofty Theme by thy unequal Song!

J. D.

248

The Same Ode Imitated.

[The Man that's resolute and just]

By William Walsh, Esq;

1

The Man that's resolute and just,
Firm to his Principles and Trust,
Nor Hopes, nor Fears, can bind:
No Passions his Designs controul;
Nor Love, that Tyrant of the Soul,
Can shake his steady Mind.

2

Nor Parties, for Revenge engag'd;
Nor Threatenings of a Court enrag'd;
Nor Storms where Fleets despair:
Not Thunder pointed at his Head;
The shatter'd World may strike him dead,
Not touch his Soul with Fear.

3

From this the Grecian Glory rose;
By this the Romans aw'd their Foes;
Of this their Poets sing:

249

These were the Paths their Heroes trod;
These Arts made Hercules a God,
And great Nassau a King.

4

Firm on the rolling Deck he stood,
Unmov'd he saw the breaking Flood,
With blackening Storms combine:
‘Virtue, he cry'd, will force its Way;
‘The Wind may for a while delay,
‘Not alter our Design.

5

‘The Man, whom selfish Hopes inflame,
‘Or Vanity allures to Fame,
‘May be to Fears betray'd:
‘But here a Church for Succour flies;
‘Insulted Law expiring lies,
‘And loudly calls for Aid.

6

‘Yes, Britons, yes, with ardent Zeal,
‘I come, the wounded Heart to heal,
‘The wounding Hand to bind.
‘See! Tools of arbitrary Sway,
‘And Priests, like Locusts, scour away
‘Before the Western Wind.

250

7

‘Law shall again her Force resume,
‘Religion, clear'd from Clouds of Rome,
‘With brighter Rays advance.
‘The British Fleet shall rule the Deep;
‘The British Youth, as rous'd from Sleep,
‘Strike Terror into France.

8

‘Nor shall these Promises of Fate
‘Be limited to my short Date;
‘When I from Cares withdraw,
‘Still shall the British Sceptre stand,
‘Still flourish in a Female Hand,
‘And to Mankind give Law.

9

‘She shall Domestic Foes unite;
‘Monarchs beneath her Flags shall fight;
‘Whole Armies drag her Chain:
‘She shall lost Italy restore,
‘Shall make th'Imperial Eagle soar,
‘And give a King to Spain.

10

‘But know, these Promises are given,
‘These great Rewards impartial Heaven

251

‘Does on these Terms decree;
‘That, strictly punishing Mens Faults,
‘You let their Consciences and Thoughts
‘Rest absolutely free.

11

‘Let no false Politics confine,
‘In narrow Bounds, your vast Design
‘To make Mankind unite;
‘Nor think it a sufficient Cause
‘To punish Men by penal Laws,
‘For not believing right.

12

‘Rome, whose blind Zeal destroys Mankind;
‘Rome's Sons shall your Compassion find,
‘Who ne'er Compassion knew.
‘By nobler Actions theirs condemn:
‘For what has been reprov'd in Them,
‘Can ne'er be prais'd in You.’

13

These Subjects suit not with the Lyre;
Muse! to what Height dost Thou aspire?
Pretending to rehearse
The Thoughts of Gods and godlike Kings.
Cease, cease, to lessen lofty Things
By mean ignoble Verse.

1707

252

ODE IV. To Calliope.

Descend, thou sweetest of the tuneful Train,
Calliope! thou Queen of Song,
Descend, and gracefully prolong,
In solemn Notes, some enthusiastic Strain;
Whether the clear harmonious Voice,
Or animated Lyre, be thy propitious Choice.

253

Hark! hear ye not the Muse? or does a Dream
The lovely, frantic Scene display?
For now I listen to her Lay;
I catch, enraptur'd, her melodious Theme,
And, fann'd by balmy Zephyrs, rove
Where murmuring Waters roll, along the sacred Grove.

Me, yet a Boy, when from the Bounds I stray'd
Of my Apulia's fostering Soil,
This Omen crown'd: As, tir'd with Toil,
Careless I slumber'd in a Mountain's Shade,
The fabled Birds of Venus spread
A verdant leafy Wreath around my honour'd Head.

They that in Bantia dwell, for Woods renown'd,
Or Acherontia, plac'd on high,
Or where Ferentum's Valleys lie,
With Bays and Myrtle, wondering, saw me crown'd,
Safe from the Viper and the Bear,
Protected by the Gods, an Infant void of Fear!

Whether I climb the Sabine Mountain's Height,
Or over cold Præneste rove,
Or muse in Tibur's sloping Grove,
Or in the gentle Baïan Streams delight,

254

Yours, I am yours, ye tuneful Choir,
And still your sacred Bard You graciously inspire.

Fond of your Sports and Streams, unhurt I fled
From dire Philippi's fatal Plain;
Unhurt I pass'd the stormy Main
Of Sicily; and my endanger'd Head,
Unhurt, escap'd the dreadful Fall
Of that devoted Tree; by You secur'd from all!

By You protected, I could take my Way
Where Bosphorus's Billows foam,
Amidst th'Assyrian Desarts roam,
Or to inhospitable Britain stray;
View Scythia, or the Caspian Shore,
And, fearless, brave the Race, that quaff their Horses' Gore.

When Cæsar, from the Labours of the Field,
His weary'd Legions breathes; a while
Reposing from their martial Toil;
In the Pierian Cave your Counsels yield
New Transport to your Pupil's Heart;
You give, and share Yourselves the Pleasures you impart.

255

We know how all the bold Gigantic Train
To lowest Tartarus were driven
By mighty Jove, who, over Heaven,
And Earth, and Ocean, stretches his Domain:
All Nature owns his righteous Sway;
Him Gods, and mortal Men, and shadowy Ghosts, obey.

Confiding in their Strength, the horrid Crew
Struck Jove himself with unknown Fright,
When on Olympus woody Height
The daring Brethren lofty Pelion threw:
But what avail'd ev'n Typhon's Power,
Or Mimas, or Porphyrion, threatening, like a Tower?

What, Rhœtus' or Enceladus's Might,
Whose Arm across the warring Field
Up-rooted Trees could singly wield,
When fierce Minerva, burning for the Fight,
High o'er their Heads her Ægis rear'd,
And fiery Vulcan here, and Juno there appear'd?

He too, whose Shoulders ever shall sustain
The Quiver and the Bow, who laves
In pure Castalia's dewy Waves
His flowing Curls, and makes the Lycian Plain,

256

Or Delian Mountain, his Abode,
And thence the Delian styl'd and Patarëan God.

But Force, devoid of Prudence, to the Ground
Self-baffled falls; while, aiding Right,
The Gods increase well-temper'd Might;
But justly hate, and justly still confound
Those Powers, that with perverted Mind
All Mischief madly brood, to Villainy resign'd.

See! Gyas lifts his hundred Hands on high,
In Witness of this solemn Truth;
See too Orion, impious Youth!
Who dar'd with vile unlawful Love to try
Th'untainted Goddess of the Wood;
But soon her Virgin Dart drank deep his vital Flood.

They feel their Parent Earth's o'erwhelming Weight;
Their Parent Earth laments to see
Her huge rebellious Progeny
Driven down, by Lightning, to the Realms of Fate;
While endless Flames from Ætna rise,
On the fell Giant cast, who there tormented lies.

257

Nor, Tityus! will th'avenging Vulture spare
Thy growing Liver; in thy Breast
For ever plac'd by Jove's Behest;
But still thy Flesh his furious Talons tear;
Nor can Pirithöus remove
His thrice a hundred Chains, the Doom of lawless Love!

J. D.

263

ODE V.

[We own the sovereign Power of Jove]

We own the sovereign Power of Jove,
Proclaim'd by Thunder from above:
A present Deity we know,
While here Augustus rules below;
For haughty Parthia courts his Chain,
And Britain swells his wide Domain.

264

Gods! could a Roman tamely bend,
Could Crassus' Veteran condescend
To serve th'insulting Mede for Life,
Match'd with a base Barbarian Wife,
Forgetful of the Roman Name,
The sacred Shields, and Vesta's Flame,
While Jove the Capitol retain'd,
And Rome without a Rival reign'd!

A Crime so fatal to prevent,
Old Regulus refus'd Consent
To slavish Terms, which he foresaw
A Curse on future Times would draw;
And mov'd, the recreant Youths should lie,
Unransom'd, in Captivity.
‘I saw, he cry'd, the Punic Foes
‘Our Standards in their Fanes expose;
‘Their Gates unfolded, and the Plain,
‘Laid waste by us, now till'd again:
‘I saw their Arms, a bloodless Prey,
‘From our base Soldiers torn away,
‘And free-born Romans' coward Hands
‘Behind them ty'd in servile Bands.
‘Say, will they now more brave return,
‘And with Increase of Courage burn?

265

‘This Ruin adds to Infamy:
‘As to the Fleece, in Tyrian Dye
‘Once dipt, no Industry nor Art
‘Its native Whiteness can impart;
‘So when fair Virtue once is stain'd,
‘Her Gloss can never be regain'd.
‘When, disentangled from the Snare,
‘The Hind her Hunter's Lance shall dare,
‘That Wretch with martial Rage shall glow,
‘Who yielded to a faithless Foe,
‘And, in his turn, the Battle gain,
‘Who, fearing Death, could wear a Chain,
‘Nor knew, uniting Peace with Strife,
‘Valour his only Chance for Life.
‘O Carthage! to our endless Shame,
‘Rais'd on the ruin'd Roman Name!’

He said; and, with averted Face,
Declin'd his Consort's chaste Embrace,
As now a Slave, and to be lov'd
Unworthy; and his Sons remov'd;
While to the Ground, with Thought intent,
His awful Eyes he sternly bent,
Till he the wavering Senate's Voice
Had fix'd, to authorize a Choice,

266

Which He, He only, could have made:
Then, by his Friends in vain delay'd,
Tho' conscious of the dreadful Fate,
Projected by Barbarian Hate,
From Relatives, who press'd his Stay,
And struggling Crowds, he broke away,
Serene, as when, from Noise and Strife,
‘And all the busy Cares of Life,’
He sought Venafrum's sweet Recess,
Th'Abode of Peace and Happiness!

J. D.

271

ODE VI. To the Roman People.

By Wentworth, Earl of Roscommon.

Those Ills your Ancestors have done,
Romans! are now become your own;
And they will cost you dear,
Unless you soon repair
The falling Temples, which the Gods provoke,
And Statues sully'd yet with sacrilegious Smoke.

272

Propitious Heaven, that rais'd your Fathers high,
For humble grateful Piety,
As it rewarded their Respect,
Hath sharply punish'd your Neglect.
All Empires on the Gods depend,
Begun by their Command, at their Command they end.
Let Crassus' Ghost, and Labienus, tell
How twice, by Jove's Revenge, our Legions fell;
And, with insulting Pride,
Shining in Roman Spoils, the Parthian Victors ride.

The Dacian and Ægyptian Scum
Had almost ruin'd Rome;
While our Seditions took their Part,
Fill'd each Ægyptian Sail, and wing'd each Dacian Dart.
First, these flagitious Times,
Pregnant with unknown Crimes,
Conspire to violate the nuptial Bed:
From which polluted Head,
Infectious Streams of crowding Sins began,
And thro' the spurious Breed, and guilty Nation, ran.

273

Behold a ripe and melting Maid
Bound 'Prentice to the wanton Trade:
Iönian Artists, at a mighty Price,
Instruct her in the Mysteries of Vice;
What Nets to spread; where, subtle Baits to lay;
And, with an early Hand, they form the temper'd Clay.

Married, their Lessons she improves
By Practice of adulterous Loves;
And scorns the common mean Design,
To take Advantage of her Husband's Wine;
Or snatch, in some dark Place,
A hasty illegitimate Embrace.
No! the brib'd Husband knows of all,
And bids her rise, when Lovers call.

Hither a Merchant, from the Streights,
Grown wealthy by forbidden Freights;
Or City Cannibal repairs,
Who feeds upon the Flesh of Heirs,
Deep sunk in Vice! whose tributary Flame
Pays the full Price of Lust, and gilds the slighted Shame.

274

'Twas not the Spawn of such as these,
That dy'd with Punic Blood the conquer'd Seas,
And quell'd the stern Æacides;
Made the proud Asian Monarch feel,
How weak his Gold against the Roman Steel;
Forc'd e'en dire Hannibal to yield,
And won the long-disputed World, at Zama's fatal Field.

But Soldiers of a rustic Mold,
Rough, hardy, season'd, manly, bold;
Either they dug the stubborn Ground,
Or thro' hewn Woods their weighty Strokes did sound;
And, after the declining Sun
Had chang'd the Shadows, and their Task was done,
Home with the weary Team they took their Way,
And drown'd, in friendly Bowls, the Labour of the Day.

Time sensibly all Things impairs;
Our Fathers have been worse than theirs;
And we than ours: Next Age will see
A Race more profligate, than we,
(With all the Pains we take) have Skill enough to be.

277

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Briton! the Thunder of the Wrath divine]

By R. L.

To the PEOPLE of Great Britain.

1.

Briton! the Thunder of the Wrath divine,
Due to thy Fathers' Crimes, and long withheld from thine,

278

Shall burst with tenfold Rage on thy devoted Head;
Unless with conscious Terrors aw'd,
By meek, heart-struck Repentance led,
Suppliant thou fall before th'offended God:
If haply yet thou may'st avert his Ire,
And stay his Arm, out-stretch'd to launch th'avenging Fire.

2.

Did not High God of old ordain,
When to thy Grasp he gave the Sceptre of the Main,
That Empire, in this favour'd Land,
Fix'd on Religion's solid Base should stand?
When from thy struggling Neck He broke
Th'inglorious, galling, Papal Yoke,
Humbled the Pride of haughty Spain,
And freed Thee by a Woman-Hero's Hand;
He then confirm'd the strong Decree:
“Briton, be virtuous, and be free;
“Be Truth, be Sanctity thy Guide:
“Be humble: fear thy God; and fear thou none beside.”

3.

Oft has th'offended Power his rising Anger shown:
Led on by His avenging Hand,
Rebellion triumphs in the Land:

279

Twice have her barbarous Sons our war-train'd Hosts o'erthrown.
They fell a cheap inglorious Prey;
Th'ambitious Victor's Boast was half supprest,
While Heaven-bred Fear, and wild Dismay,
Unmann'd the Warrior's Heart, and reign'd in every Breast.

4.

Her Arms to foreign Lands Britannia bore;
Her Arms, auspicious now no more!
With frequent Conquest where the Sires were crown'd,
The Sons ill-fated fell, and bit the hostile Ground:
The tame, war-trading Belgian fled,
While in his Cause the Briton bled:
The Gaul stood wondering at his own Success;
Oft did his hardiest Bands their wonted Fears confess,
Struck with Dismay, and meditating Flight:
While the brave Foe still urg'd th'unequal Fight,
While William, with his Father's Ardor fir'd,
Thro' all th'undaunted Host the generous Flame inspir'd.

5.

But heavier far the Weight of Shame,
That sunk Britannia's Naval Fame:

280

In vain she spreads her once-victorious Sails;
Or Fear, or Rashness, in her Chiefs prevails;
And wildly these prevent, those basely shun the Fight:
Content with humble Praise, the Foe
Avoids the long-impending Blow;
Improves the kind Escape, and triumphs in his Flight!

6.

The monstrous Age, which still increasing Years debase,
Which teems with unknown Crimes, and genders new Disgrace,
First, unrestrain'd by Honour, Faith, or Shame,
Confounding every sacred Name,
The hallow'd nuptial Bed with lawless Lust profan'd:
Deriv'd from this polluted Source,
The dire Corruption held its Course
Thro' the whole canker'd Race, and tainted all the Land.

7.

The ripening Maid is vers'd in every dangerous Art,
That ill adorns the Form, while it corrupts the Heart:
Practis'd to dress, to dance, to play,
In wanton Mask to lead the Way,
To move the plyant Limbs, to roll the luring Eye;
With Folly's gayest Partizans to vye

281

In empty Noise, and vain Expence;
To celebrate, with flaunting Air,
The Midnight Revels of the Fair;
Studious of every Praise, but Virtue, Truth, and Sense.

8.

Thus lesson'd in Intrigue, her early Thought improves,
Nor meditates in vain forbidden Loves:
Soon the gay Nymph, as Nature leads, shall rove
Free and at large amid th'Idalian Grove;
Or, haply jealous of the Voice of Fame,
Mask'd in the Matron's sober Name,
With many a well-dissembled Wile,
The kind, convenient Husband's Care beguile:
More deeply vers'd in Venus' mystic Lore,
Yet for such meaner Arts too lofty and sublime,
The proud, high-born, Patrician Whore
Bears unabash'd her Front, and glories in her Crime.

9.

Hither, from City, and from Court,
The Votaries of Love resort;
The Rich, the Great, the Gay, and the Severe;
The pension'd Architect of Laws;
The Patriot, loud in Virtue's Cause;
Proud of imputed Worth, the Peer:

282

Regardless of his Faith, his Country, or his Name,
He pawns his Honour and Estate,
Nor reckons, at how dear a Rate
He purchases Disease, and Servitude, and Shame.

10.

Not from such dastard Sires, to every Virtue lost,
Sprung the brave Youth, which Britain once could boast:
Who curb'd the Gaul's usurping Sway,
Who swept unnumber'd Hosts away,
On Agincourt and Cressy's glorious Plain;
Who dy'd the Seas with Spanish Blood,
Their vainly-vaunted Fleets subdu'd,
And spread the mighty Wreck o'er all the vanquish'd Main.

11.

No;—'twas a generous Race, by Worth transmissive known:
In their bold Breasts their Father's Spirit glow'd;
In their pure Veins their Mother's Virtue flow'd;
They made hereditary Praise their own.
The Sire his emulous Offspring led
The rougher Paths of Fame to tread;
The Matron train'd their spotless Youth,
In Honour, Sanctity, and Truth:

283

Form'd by th'united Parents' Care,
The Sons, tho' bold, were wise; the Daughters chaste, tho' fair.

12.

How Time, all-wasting, ev'n the worst impairs,
And each foul Age to Dregs still fouler runs!
Our Sires, more vicious ev'n than theirs,
Left us, still more degenerate Heirs,
To spawn a baser Brood of Monster-breeding Sons!

1746.

ODE VII. To Asterie.

I

Say, why does fair Asterie mourn?
Why doubt her Lover's wish'd Return?
The vernal Gales her Gyges shall restore,

284

And kindly waft the longing Youth,
Of constant and unshaken Truth,
With a rich Cargo from Bithynia's Shore.

2

Driven by the South to Oricum,
He now bewails his hapless Doom,
Nor thro' long freezing Nights can close his Eyes:
While stormy Winds detain him there,
Impatient the Restraint to bear,
He lengthens out the lingering Hours with Sighs.

3

Mean while his Hostess strives to move,
And tempt him to licentious Love;
Her Envoy shows, how his obliging Dame
Is prey'd upon by secret Fire;
Describes her pining with Desire,
And tries each Art alluring Wit can frame;

4

Relates, how Sthenobœa's Tears
Provok'd believing Prætus' Fears;
How, stung by fatal Jealousy, she strove
The Son of Glaucus to destroy,
(Rash to refuse the proffer'd Joy!)
And Vengeance vow'd for her affronted Love.

285

5

How Peleus, on the Brink of Fate,
Felt the dire Force of Woman's Hate,
Whilst from Hippolyté, too chaste, he fled:
With various Tales he plies the Youth,
To wake his Fears, or taint his Truth,
And win him to despairing Chloë's Bed.

6

In vain!—He, faithful, hears no more
Than Rocks, when Seas and Tempests roar;
Nor owns the Conquest of her wily Eyes—
But thou, my Fair, perform thy Part,
Nor let thy Neighbour's subtle Art
Thy soft unguarded Soul by Stealth surprize.

7

What tho' no Youth, in Mars's Field,
Such Proofs of manly Strength can yield,
To curb the Courser; and, with nervous Arms,
The rapid Tyber to divide,
And stem the Torrent of the Tide;
With Caution view his too attractive Charms!

8

At Night's Approach, thy Door be barr'd;
Nor from thy Window once regard

286

His plaintive Flute with tender pitying Eye:
And tho' he vows, and mourns his Pains,
Oft calls Thee Cruel, and complains,
Yet still be Cruel, and his Suit deny!

287

ODE VIII. To Mæcenas.

1

In Greek and Roman Writings skill'd,
You wonder what these Vases, fill'd
With Incense, mean; and why my Head
Flowers on this Festival adorn;
And why on verdant Turf I burn
These Coals, a Stranger to the genial Bed!

2

To Bacchus' Guardian Power, the Blood
Of a white Goat I grateful vow'd,
When just escap'd the falling Oak;
And now, as Years renew the Feast,
Of all my Casks will pierce the best,
Since Tullus rul'd, improv'd with mellowing Smoke.

288

3

A hundred Glasses to a Friend
Sav'd from such Peril, should commend
Your Love, Mæcenas!—To our Joys,
Prolong'd by watchful Lamps till Light,
Devote we this auspicious Night
Of social Mirth, but free from Jars and Noise.

4

Awhile forget your Civil Cares;
Discard each Thought of State-Affairs;
The Dacian Chief is overthrown;
The Medes conspire against their Lords,
Frantic they fight, nor wait our Swords,
But fall in Crowds, the Victims of their own.

5

To Rome, our old Cantabrian Foes,
And Scythians yield, with loosen'd Bows.
Let Sages future Fate foretell,
And o'er the public Safety watch,
While we the present Moment snatch,
And, high in Spirits, bid our Cares farewell.

294

ODE IX. A Dialogue between Horace and Lydia.

By Francis, Lord Bishop of Rochester.

Horace.
Whilst I was fond, and You were kind,
Nor any dearer Youth, reclin'd
On your soft Bosom, sought to rest,
Not Persia's Monarch was so blest.

Lydia.
Whilst You ador'd no other Face,
Nor lov'd me in the second Place,
Your Lydia's celebrated Fame
Outshone the Roman Ilia's Name.

Horace.
Me, Chloë now possesses whole;
Her Voice and Lyre command my Soul:
Nor would I Death itself decline,
Could I redeem her Life with mine.

295

Lydia.
For Me young lovely Calaïs burns,
And Warmth for Warmth my Heart returns.
Twice would I Life for Him resign,
Could his be ransom'd thus with mine.

Horace.
What if the God, whose Bands we broke,
Again should tame us to the Yoke;
What if my Chloë cease to reign,
And Lydia her lost Power regain!

Lydia.
Tho' Phosphor be less fair than He;
Thou wilder than the raging Sea;
Lighter than Down; yet gladly I
With Thee would live, with Thee would die.

297

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Celia, when I alone was blest]

Amyntas.
Celia , when I alone was blest
In full Possession of thy Breast,
Nor other happy Youth had Part,
Of that, ah! too inconstant Heart;
Made by thy Love both rich and great,
I envy'd not the Regal State.

Celia.
Amyntas, when thy lasting Verse
Did only Celia's Praise rehearse;
When yet no Rival's hated Name
Disgrac'd thy Passion, and my Fame;
Than Venus' self more Joy I knew,
Were all the Tales of Poets true.

Amyntas.
Bound in Lucinda's pleasing Chains,
O'er every Sense the Fair-one reigns;
Her heavenly Voice, with sweet Surprize,
Extends the Conquest of her Eyes:

298

My Life I early would resign,
Hers to prolong, more dear than mine.

Celia.
In every Motion of my Breast,
The Power of Thyrsis is confess'd:
I feel, with Joy, the warm Desires;
An equal Flame his Bosom fires:
Repeated Deaths I would sustain,
Might those preserve the lovely Swain.

Amyntas.
What if our mutual Loves return,
And we with wonted Ardor burn;
If the kind God his gentle Yoke,
Imposes, never to be broke,
And, from Lucinda's Bonds set free,
I give my destin'd Heart to Thee?

Celia.
Tho' the dear Youth is kind and fair,
And constant as the Turtles are;
Thou, boisterous as the Northern Wind,
And light as Cork, to Change inclin'd:
With Thee my blissful Days I'd spend,
And in thy Arms my Life would end!

299

ODE X. To Lycé.

1

Did Lycé drink at Tanais' Head,
And share a savage Scythian's Bed,
She could not, with unpitying Eyes,
Behold her Lover on the Floor,
Extended near her freezing Door,
And bare to Winds that blow from Northern Skies.

2

Hark! on the Gate how loud they beat:
The Trees, that shade thy beauteous Seat,
With the tumultuous Noise resound!
Fierce drives the Storm;—Now Æther clear
Glazes the Snow with Frost severe;
And Spangles glitter on the glassy Ground!

3

O then thy proud Disdain remove,
Ungrateful to the Queen of Love,

300

Lest my fond Passion ebb again:
Alas! thy Tuscan Sire, in Thee
Begot no coy Penelopé,
To let thy plaintive Wooers sigh in vain.

4

If Vows and Gifts are all too weak;
And the dead Paleness of my Cheek
Can nought avail thy Breast to move;
If, that thy Consort scorns thy Charms,
And takes a Songstress to his Arms,
Cannot incline thee to my worthier Love;

5

Nor Cupid's feeble Arrows reach
Thy Heart, obdurate as the Beech,
And fierce as Snakes on Libya's Shore;
Yet know, tho' now my Sides can bear
The driving Rain, and nipping Air,
The Time will come, when they can bear no more!

302

ODE XI. To Mercury.

Hermes! (by whom Amphion's Song
Inspir'd, drew docile Stones along)
And thou, sweet Harp, who canst controul
With seven harmonious Strings th'according Soul;

Once mute, but grateful now at Feasts,
To chear the Gods, and godlike Guests,
Teach me such Numbers, as may pierce
My Lydé's Ears; tho', to my Vows averse,

She sports along the verdant Plain,
Like a fleet Filly; shuns the Rein;
Fears to be touch'd; nor yet will prove,
Wild and untry'd, the pleasing Pains of Love!

Thou, Tygers and attentive Woods,
Canst charm, and stop the rapid Floods:
The Porter of th'Infernal Hall,
Fierce Cerberus, obeys thy soothing Call;

303

Tho' all around his dreadful Head,
A hundred hissing Snakes are spread;
His Mouth tho' fiery Vapour fills,
And from his triple Tongue black Gore distills!

Thy Notes Ixion's Pains beguil'd;
Tityus awhile, reluctant, smil'd.
Dry was their Urn; the soothing Strain
Reliev'd the Labours of the Virgin-Train.

‘The Streams thro' leaky Vessels spilt,
‘The Torment equal to their Guilt,
‘Fair Lydé, hear! Revenge, tho' slow,
‘O'ertakes the Guilty in the Realms below.

‘The Pains deserv'd they suffer there,
‘Who with disloyal Hand could dare,
‘Ev'n at the silent Hour of Rest,
‘(What could they more?) to pierce each Husband's Breast!

‘Of all the Virgins, One alone
‘Worthy the Bridal Torch was known,
‘Who, gloriously deceitful, brav'd
‘Her perjur'd Father, and her Consort sav'd:

304

‘Awake! she cry'd; Awake! Arise!
‘Lest Sleep eternal seal thy Eyes:
‘Arise! and, O elude in Time
‘My Sire's and Sisters' unexampled Crime.

‘As on the Lamb the Tygress feeds,
‘So by his Bride each Bridegroom bleeds;
‘But I (more soft than they) the Blow
‘Nor strike, nor keep thee for a fiercer Foe.

‘Me let my Father load with Chains,
‘Or banish to Numidia's Plains,
‘For saving thus my wretched Mate,
‘To tread, with doubtful Feet, the Maze of Fate.

‘With happy Omens quit my Bed,
‘By favouring Night and Venus led;
‘Then, grateful, on my Tomb rehearse
‘My pious Love in softly plaintive Verse.’

307

ODE XII. To Neobule.

Wretched the Girl, forbid to prove
Th'alternate Joys of Wine and Love,
And doom'd an Uncle's Threats to fear,
Too rugged for a tender Ear.
The winged Boy, in wanton Play,
Thy Work and Basket steals away:
Thy Web and Pallas' curious Toils
Are now become fair Hebrus' Spoils;
A Youth more skilful, on the Plain,
Than Glaucus' Son to guide the Rein:
Admir'd he shines with manly Grace,
Both in the Cæstus and the Race;
With plyant Shoulders can divide
The foaming Tyber's rapid Tide;
Along the Lawn pursue the Doe,
And pierce her with unerring Bow;
Or nimbly with his Spear surprize
The Boar, that close in Covert lies!

309

ODE XIII. To the Nymph presiding over the Blandusian Fountain.

1.

Nymph of the Spring, whose Waves surpass
The Clearness of transparent Glass,
And well deserve each Rite divine,
The flowery Garland, and the luscious Wine;

2.

To-morrow's rising Sun shall see
The choicest Victim given to Thee,
A Kid, with budding Horns prepar'd
The Venus of his Heart to guard:
In vain.—For soon his crimson Blood
Shall stain the Crystal of thy spotless Flood.

1.

Not Phœbus with his sultry Beam,
When Sirius reigns, can pierce thy Stream:
The Oxen, loosen'd from the Share,
And panting Sheep, to Thee for Shade repair.

310

2.

Among the Springs of noblest Fame
Shalt Thou be rank'd, while I proclaim
The spreading Oak, whose awful Brow
O'erhangs the hollow Rock below;
From which, with gently-babbling Tide,
Thy limpid Waters, fair Blandusia, glide.

J. D.

312

The Same Ode Imitated.

To the Pen, employed in writing Sermons.

1

O thou! whose Nip the trivial Strain
Of amorous Bard shall ne'er profane,
To-morrow shall the Pulpit see
A beauteous Prospect drawn by Thee;
And Honey from the sacred Rock,
Instill'd by Thee, shall chear my Flock.

2

Tho' now, in thoughtless Sports and Play,
The Wantons pass the jocund Day,
Soon shalt Thou fill each vacant Mind
With Pleasures of a nobler kind,
And, calm'd by thy persuasive Lore,
Their Passions shall rebell no more.

3

Thou art the friendly Crook, that leads
My fainting Sheep to dewy Meads:

313

By thy blest Guidance they repair
To fertile Fields, and purer Air;
And, safe from Wolves, with Transport stray,
Where Streams of living Waters play.

4

Thy deathless Praises shall inspire
Some Poet with a Preacher's Fire;
While I those fluttering Feathers sing,
That tremble o'er the sable Spring;
From whence, with swift but silent Tide,
O'er snow-white Leaves thy Waters glide.

ODE XIV. On the Return of Augustus from Spain.

Cæsar , like Hercules, in Spain,
Who, late we boasted, won with Blood
The Laurel Wreath, now comes again
Victorious to his high Abode.

Let Her, to whom auspicious Fate
Th'Imperial Diadem has given,

314

Go forth to meet her matchless Mate,
And pay her pious Vows to Heaven.

Let good Octavia, at the Head
Of all the noble Wives of Rome,
With decent Gratitude proceed
To welcome our Deliverer home.

And Ye, whose Sons escap'd the Sword,
In Hymns to Heaven your Voice employ;
But let no inauspicious Word
Break forth to damp the Public Joy.

No gloomy Cares shall overspread
And cloud this glorious Festival;
Nor War, nor Tumults, will I dread,
While Cæsar rules the conquer'd Ball.

Go, Boy, fetch Oyl; and Crowns prepare;
And broach the Casks, that 'scap'd the Hands,
(If any such remaining are)
Of Spartacus's vagrant Bands.

With essenc'd Hair, in Fillets tied,
Let not at home Neæra stay:
Go, bring my Songstress—If deny'd,
Or should she linger, come away.

315

Grey Locks impetuous Heat reclaim:
When bold with Youth, in Plancus' Year,
A Trifle would my Blood inflame,
Nor could I then such Treatment bear.

318

ODE XV. To Chloris.

Thou Wife of Ibycus the Poor,
At length to Scandal bar the Door;
Advancing near thy funeral Flame,
Set Bounds to thy notorious Shame:
Sport not among the Virgin Train,
Nor sparkling Stars with Vapours stain.
What suits the Daughter in her Prime,
In wrinkled Age is deem'd a Crime.
For she, with Bacchanalian Rage,
In Midnight Frolics may engage,
And, like a Kid, with better Grace,
In wanton Sport her Nothus chase.
The Wool, near fair Luceria shorn,
Will more than Harps thy Hands adorn.
The purple Rose is now too weak
To hide the Paleness of thy Cheek.

319

Since Age and Riot ill agree,
Think on thy own Mortality!
For Revels will not Thee become,
Grown old, and bending to the Tomb.

320

ODE XVI. To Mæcenas,

Within a brazen Tower immur'd,
Strong Gates and watchful Dogs secur'd
From nightly Lovers Danaë;
But all the Father's fruitless Cares,
His jealous Doubts, and anxious Fears,
Venus and Jove in secret smil'd to see:
They knew no Gates so strong, no Dogs so bold,
As to exclude a God, transform'd to Gold.

When Gold appears, what Guards deny
A ready Passage? Warriors fly,
Rocks open, at the Touch of Gold.
Nor Jove so sure a Bolt can boast:
The Grecian Sage by Gold was lost,
And all his Family betray'd, or sold:
Philip by Gold unbarr'd the strongest Gates;
By Gold he conquer'd all the rival States.

321

Rough Captains, boisterous as the Seas,
All-powerful Presents can appease.
Wealth ever is pursu'd by Care.
O Glory of th'Equestrian Name,
Mæcenas! Diffidence and Shame
Allow me not aloft my Head to rear.
The more each Man shall to himself deny,
The more the Gods shall all his Wants supply.

I, to no wild Desires a Slave,
Join with the few, that nothing crave,
And scorn to haunt the rich Man's Door:
Of what my humble Fields afford,
By juster Claim, the splendid Lord,
Than if, amidst exhaustless Plenty poor,
My ample Garners held whate'er the Swains
Industrious reap on rich Apulia's Plains.

What tho', in ermin'd Purple gay,
The Consul wide extends his Sway
O'er sultry Afric's fruitful Soil;
He knows not that a purling Rill,
A shady Grove, a Field that still
With sure Increase repays the Tiller's Toil,

322

Such heart-felt Joys to Me, contented, yield,
As must from Him for ever be conceal'd.

What tho' no Gallic Flocks for Me
Are fed, nor the Calabrian Bee
Distills her honey'd Sweets; nor Casks
Of Formian Wine my Cellars store;
Yet Horace knows not Want; and mor
You freely will bestow, if more he asks;
But, unambitious, he alone desires
What a small decent Competence requires.

My Tax more chearfully I pay,
Than if I held unbounded Sway,
And subject Provinces possess'd:
He that, repining, covets more,
Is ever wanting, ever poor:
For those alone I deem completely bless'd,
To whom, indulgent to their Wishes, Heaven
Enough, but with no lavish Hand, has given.

J. D.

326

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Danaë, inclosed in Towers of Brass]

By Mr. Samuel Say.

Danaë , inclosed in Towers of Brass,
Strong Iron Gates and opening Dogs
Wakeful, had well secur'd by Day,
Had well secur'd by Night;
If Jove and Venus had not mock'd
The jealous Sire—So Fables tell—
Vain Iron! Vain Brass! transform'd to Gold,
He won the greedy Maid.
When Gold appears, the Guards retire,
The Floods divide, the Rocks are rent;
Not Thunder flings the fiery Bolt
With such resistless Power.
Subjects their Kings, and Priests their Gods,

327

Exchange for Gold. The Gownman Right
And Wrong confounds: For Gold he pleads;
For Gold betrays the Cause.
Touch'd by thy stronger Force, tow'rds Thee
The Compass veers, almighty Gold!
Before thee Wisdom, Valour, Sense,
And Virtue is no more.
Care follows close, where Gold precedes:
Sweet Innocence, Contentment, Peace,
No more shall bless the Day; no more
Soft Slumbers bless the Night.
This Horace saw, wise Bard! and durst
Refuse the glittering Bribe; to share
With Cæsar all the World; to share
The World, and share the Toil.
‘Tempt me no more, Mæcenas, tempt
‘No more thy Flaccus to aspire
‘To Wealth and Power; he fears the Helm
‘Because he fears the Storm.
‘What we deny ourselves, just Heaven
‘Restores with Interest. Naked, see!
‘Naked thy humble Friend deserts
‘The Party of the Great.
‘Glad Fugitive—he longs to reach

328

‘The Camp of the contented Few,
‘Whose little is enough—Enough—
‘That sweeter Word for All!’
O decent Pride! O truly Lord
Of his Possessions, who still bears
A Soul above them! richer far
Than all Apulia's Stores,
Heap'd in the crowded Barn, could make
The Mind, that covets without End,
And, drinking, thirsts for more! O Wretch,
In utmost Plenty, poor!
A silver Stream, a silent Grove,
A Summer's Eve, a small Estate,
Still faithful to its Lord: A Life
Retir'd from Noise or Care,
Steals thro' the World, with Joys unknown
To the profaner Mind; with Joys
Unknown to crowded Courts; to Peers,
And scepter'd Kings, unknown!
Tho' no proud Palace loads the Ground,
Or towers into the Sky; no Car,
With gilded Trappings gay, behind
Bestuck with pamper'd Slaves,
Moves slow in State; nor costly Wines

329

Tokay, Champaign, or Burgundy,
Nor high Ragouts deceive the Taste,
And progagate Disease!
Yet fair Content my Cottage chears;
Lettuce and Pease my Garden yields:
Plain Food, soft Ale, and homebrew'd Wines,
Still crown my healthful Board.
Thro' fragrant Fields, or spreading Lawns,
Where the Sheep graze, and Oxen low,
Or stalks the Stag, with Head erect,
I sometimes musing rove:
Pleas'd with his Load, sometimes my Pad
Smooth ambles to the neighbouring Gate,
Which opens friendly to receive
The not unwelcome Guest.
Happy! who knows himself, and knows
To judge of Happiness; to whom
Wise Heaven, with kind but frugal Hand,
Has each just Want supplied.

1720.

330

ODE XVII. To Ælius Lamia.

Ælius whose noble Lineage springs
From a long Race of ancient Kings,
(From Him the Lamia's Blood roll'd down,
Who greatly fill'd the Formian Throne,

331

Where the slow Streams of Liris rove
In Silence thro' Marica's Grove)
To-morrow from the East shall roar
Bleak Storms, and spread with Weeds the Shore;
With Leaves the Ground; unless in vain
Croaks the old Crow, presaging Rain.
Haste then to store thy Billets dry;
To-morrow let a Porket die;
With this and Wine thy Genius chear,
Nor to thy Slaves be too severe;
But let thy Houshold, free from Care,
With Thee the social Banquet share.

333

ODE XVIII. To Faunus.

Faunus , still fond to chase the Train
Of Nymphs who fly thee; gracious rove
Along my Bounds and sunny Plain;
Nor from my Flock in Wrath remove,
If, every Year, a Kid resign
His Blood; if the full Bowl, the Friend
Of Venus, pour its copious Wine;
And Steams from thy old Shrine ascend—
In Pastures all the Cattle sport,
Soon as returns thy hallow'd Day;
To Meads the vacant Hinds resort,
And, round th'unharness'd Oxen, play.

334

The Lamb from Wolves no longer flies;
For Thee the Wood its Honours sheds;
His Spade no more the Delver plies,
But thrice the Ground in Gambols treads.

336

ODE XIX. To Telephus.

With needless Search the Years you trace
From Inachus to Codrus' Fate;
And Æacus's glorious Race,
And the fam'd Siege of sacred Troy relate:

But when a chearful Fire shall blaze,
Or how a Chian Cask will sell,

337

Who treats to-night, or merits Praise
For tempering the Bath, you spare to tell.

To Midnight, to the rising Moon,
And to Murena quaff the Wine,
Augur elect! 'Tis best to crown
The Feast with Goblets three, at most with nine.

He, that th'unequal Muses loves,
A Bard exalted by each Bowl,
With Glasses nine his Flame improves;
The naked Graces, loth to heat the Soul,

And fearing Strife, but three allow—
I joy to rave—Let not the Lute
In Silence hang; the Hautboy blow,
And mellowly inspire the Phrygian Flute.

I hate a Niggard—Roses spread:
Let ancient Lycus hear the Noise,
And she, ill suited to his Bed:
Let Lycus hear, repining at our Joys.

Thee, Telephus, with spreading Hair,
Beauteous as Hesper's sparkling Ray,
Ripe Chloë seeks: With love-sick Care,
And lingering Flames, I doat on Glycera.

J. D.

341

ODE XX. To Pyrrhus.

How from the Lioness you bear
Her darling Cubs, rash Boy! beware;
Or You shall soon, by coward Flight,
Decline the Danger of the Fight:

When, fierce to seize her lovely Prey,
Thro' Crowds of Youths she cleaves her Way,
A furious Battle shall ensue,
To fix the Prize with Her or You:

You aim the Shaft; while, dreadful, She
Sharpens her Fangs; and, careless, he,
The Combat's Arbiter, is said
With naked Foot the Wreath to tread;

342

Displaying with a graceful Air,
To the soft Breeze, his scented Hair,
Adown his Shoulders loosely spread,
Like Nireus, or like Ganymed!

343

ODE XXI. To his Cask.

Inscribed to George Jeffreys, Esq;

With Me coæval, in the Year
Of Manlius, whether Plaints thou bear
Or Mirth; or Brawls and frantic Love;
Or, sacred Cask! to soothing Slumbers move:

Whatever Frame thou shalt instill,
Descend; obedient to the Will
Of my Corvinus, and produce,
Reserv'd for such a Friend, thy mellow Juice.

Tho' with Socratic Learning fraught,
No Cynic He, to scorn thy Draught:
With Wine, as round it chearly flow'd,
'Tis said, old Cato's rigid Virtue glow'd.

Thou, with thy gentle Torture, oft
Dost melt the rigid to the soft;

344

And, sportive, strip from grave Disguise
The Cares, and secret Counsels of the Wise.

Thou canst to anxious Minds restore
Spirit and Hope; and give the Poor
A Heart, that neither knows to fear
The wrathful Tyrant's Plume, or Soldier's Spear.

Bacchus, and Beauty's Queen (if kind),
And Hand in Hand the Graces join'd,
And these fair Lamps, shall court thy Stay,
Till rising Phœbus chase the Stars away.

1754.

348

ODE XXII. To Diana.

1

Of Woods and Mountains Guardian-Maid,
Thrice call'd, propitious to redeem,
And give to pregnant Dames thy Aid,
Thou triple Goddess with a triple Name!

2

Accept the Pine that shades my Seat,
Which, ever as the Year rolls round,
I with the flowing Blood will greet
Of a young Boar, that aims a sidelong Wound.

349

ODE XXIII. To Phidylé.

If, each new Moon, my rustic Maid
Is seen with Hands to Heaven display'd,
Why should she seek more Gifts than these,
Th'offended Lares to appease:
New Fruits and Incense let her pay,
And at their Shrine a Porket slay.
Then shall the South her Vineyard spare;
Her Corn be safe from blighting Air;
Nor shall her Kids and Lambkins die,
When sickly Autumn taints the Sky.

350

Let the devoted Steer, that feeds
Luxuriant in fair Alba's Meads;
Or Algidus, embrown'd with Wood,
The sacred Axes stain with Blood.
In You, my Phidylé, 'twere vain
To strive by Bribes your Gods to gain;
You need but deck their humble Brows
With Rosemary Sprigs and Myrtle Boughs.

Before their Altar if You stand,
And touch it with unblemish'd Hand,
Your Salt and Barley will become
More grateful than a Hecatomb.

355

ODE XXIV.

[Tho' India's Stores your Wealth excell'd]

Tho' India's Stores your Wealth excell'd,
And rich Arabia, yet unquell'd;
Tho' Tyrrhene and Etruscan Seas
Were shaded by your ample Palaces;
When Fate, with adamantine Hand,
Shall urge th'inflexible Demand,
In vain you would redeem from Dread
Your Heart, in vain from Snares of Death your Head.
Better the savage Scythian lives,
Who in a Wain his Houshold drives;
Better the Gete, whose fruitful Grounds
No Fence divides, unmark'd by jealous Bounds;
One Year he tills the mellow Soil,
And rests the next from all his Toil:
No Step-dames treacherously prepare
The baneful Cup for hapless Orphans there:
No portion'd Wife controuls her Spouse,
And gives Gallants her plighted Vows:

356

The Suitors there alone require
For Dower, a Race of Probity entire,
And Chastity with native Charms,
Which bashful flies a Stranger's Arms:
They justly Breach of Vows disdain,
Or Death, their Doom, wipes off th'opprobrious Stain.
O who will quell our Civil Rage,
And Slaughter's impious Course asswage?
Would he in breathing Marble stand,
Engrav'd, The Father of a rescu'd Land,
Let him licentious Vice reclaim,
Content alone with future Fame.
Virtue, while flashing on our Eyes,
Envious, we hate; yet, when departed, prize.
But what can these Complaints import,
If Justice shrinks in cutting short
The Growth of Vice; for what avails
The wisest Law, if moral Virtue fails?
If nor the sultry Southern Coasts,
Nor Northern Climes, congeal'd with Frosts,
Nor all the Horrors of the Main,
From dangerous Searches for the hidden Gain,
The greedy Merchant can deter,
Or fright the daring Mariner.

357

What will not Want's false Shame enjoin,
Quitting the narrow Tract of Virtue's Line?—
Then to the Capitol convey,
While shouting Thousands crowd the Way,
Your Gems and fatal Gold, or throw
Into the Sea those Springs of every Woe:
If with Remorse your Crimes you view,
Each lawless Appetite subdue;
And strengthen the too tender Mind
With generous Studies of a manly Kind.
Our noble Youths, untaught to lead
Th'impetuous Chace, and guide the Steed,
Are skill'd to make the Trochus fly,
And nimbly cast the Law-forbidden Die.
Yet fond this worthless Son to raise,
The perjur'd Sire his Friend betrays:
In vain his wicked Coffers fill;
Something, I know not what, is wanting still.

J. D.

363

ODE XXV. To Bacchus.

Whither, Bacchus, wouldst thou bear me?
To what Grott or hallow'd Grove?
Say, what sacred Cave shall hear me
Sing great Cæsar, Son of Jove?

Where, enraptur'd, shall I raise him
To the Synod of the Sky?
In unrivall'd Songs I'll praise him,
High as mortal Strains may fly.

364

Full of thy inspiring Potion,
Glowing with a new-born Fire;
All my Soul, in wild Commotion,
Louder Notes shall wake my Lyre.

Thus amaz'd, on airy Mountains,
Rouz'd from Rest, thy Votaries glow,
Viewing Hebrus' fabled Fountains,
Rhodopé o'erwhelm'd with Snow.

How its solemn Prospects please me,
Wandering thro' the silent Grove!
What ecstatic Transports seize me,
While o'er craggy Rocks I rove!

Hear me, Bacchus! Power victorious
O'er the fierce lymphatic Train;
Nothing groveling, or inglorious,
Shall my sacred Song profane.

Tho' th'adventrous Theme alarm thee,
Still, my Muse, be blithe and gay;
Let the Thought of Danger warm thee;
Vine-crown'd Bacchus leads the Way.

367

The Same Ode Paraphrased.

[O whither am I hurry'd, God of Wine]

By William Shippen, Esq;

O whither am I hurry'd, God of Wine,
Inspir'd, and full of Thee?
Into what Caves, what Forests, do I fly,
By some new Soul inform'd with Influence divine?
In what Recesses am I heard to raise
My Voice, high as immortal Cæsar's Praise;
To mix him with his kindred Stars above,
To plant him in the Courts of sovereign Jove?
Something I meditate
Sublime, and eminently great;
Something yet new, and yet unsung
By any mortal Tongue.

368

With such Amazemenr, such a frantic Flight,
Mad sleepless Bacchanals scour up the steepy Mountain's Height;
Whence wondering they behold eternal Winter's Face,
The frozen Hebrus, snow-clad Thrace,
And Rhodopé, where all the barbarous Train
In antic Dances revel o'er the Plain.
With what Delight my raptur'd Fancy roves,
By limpid Streams, thro' unfrequented Groves!
O thou! whose mighty Energy's confest
By every Goddess of the Flood;
By thy wild Priestess, when her heaving Breast,
With fierce enthusiastic Rage possest,
Proclaims the present God;
And when she, in her sacred Round,
The rooted Ash tears from the groaning Ground;
Nothing I sing, or low or mean shall be;
But rising all to Immortality!
Such Flights are dangerously high,
With unfledg'd Plumes to tempt the lofty Sky!
But, Bacchus! every Danger sweet is found,
While, with warm elevated Heads,
We follow Thee with Vine-leaf Garlands crown'd;
We follow wheresoe'er thy Inspiration leads!

369

ODE XXVI. To Venus.

1

Fit for the Girls, in Venus' Cause
I lately serv'd, and won Applause;
But now her Eastern Wall shall bear
My useless Arms, and Harp, discharg'd from War.

2

My dreaded Axe, whose sturdy Stroke
Each bolted Door to Shivers broke;
My Torch and Bow, here place on high,
As Trophies of thy Champion's Victory.

3

‘Goddess! who with indulgent Smile
‘Dost thy delightful Cyprian Isle,
‘And Memphis, free from Snow, command;
‘Once tap proud Chloë with up-lifted Wand.’

372

ODE XXVII. To Galatea,

Setting out for Brundusium, in order to cross the Adriatic Sea, in her Way to Greece.

1

Whene'er the Wicked roam abroad,
May Magpyes chatter on the Road;
The pregnant Bitch, or Fox, whose Young
Are newly cast, disast'rous pass along!

2

May from Lanuvium red Wolves stray,
Or Serpents dart across the Way,
To fright their Steeds! But, round the Sky,
For Thee I'll watch with ever-wakeful Eye.

3

Before the Crow, presaging Rain,
Flies to the dank and marshy Plain,
The lucky Raven I will rouze,
From the fair East, by my prevailing Vows—

373

4

May Fortune still thy Choice attend,
(Yet, O be mindful of thy Friend!)
Nor croaking Crows, of Omen dire,
Or noisy Peckers, warn Thee to retire.

5

Yet mark Orion!—How he lowers,
And setting shows the gathering Showers!
Too well I know what Storms arise
On Adria's sable Gulph, from smiling Skies.

6

O may the Children of our Foes
The Tempest feel, that loudly blows,
When springs the South; the Waves that roar,
And with dread Fury lash the trembling Shore!

7

Europa thus the Bull caress'd,
And his broad Back, advent'rous, press'd;
But when the Monsters of the Main
She saw, her Heart was fill'd with throbbing Pain.

8

She, who, along the flowery Meads,
Wove Wreaths for her Companions Heads,

374

Now in the Gloom sees nought around,
But twinkling Stars and Ocean's Waves profound.

9

Soon as at Crete arriv'd, where rise
A hundred stately Towers, she cries,
‘How has my frantic Rage supprest
‘The filial Piety, that warm'd my Breast!

10

‘From whence? where am I?—Once to die
‘Is, sure, too slight a Penalty!
‘Do I deplore, with waking Thought,
‘Some shocking Crime, which I indeed have wrought?

11

‘Or, from the Ivory Gate of Night,
‘Does some vain Dream my Fancy fright?
‘Fond Wretch! to traverse thus the Main,
‘Rather than weave fresh Garlands on the Plain.

12

‘Would now the wicked Steer return,
‘While thus with just Revenge I burn,
‘I'd rend the Monster, once so dear,
‘And break his Horns, or pierce him with a Spear!

375

13

‘Shameless! thy Father's House to fly;
‘Shameless! so guilty, not to die:
‘O hear my Prayer, some righteous Power!
‘Let savage Beasts my naked Coarse devour!

14

‘Ere hollow Wrinkles mar the Grace,
‘And bloomy Lustre of my Face,
‘May the fierce Tyger's Maw become
‘Of my still-beauteous Limbs the living Tomb!

15

‘Thy absent Sire, degenerate Maid!
‘Demands thy Death, too long delay'd:
‘To that tall Elm thy Body tye;
‘This friendly Girdle will the Means supply.

16

‘Or, should it give thee more Delight,
‘From some high Rock to take thy Flight,
‘Behold yon jutting Precipice;
‘Thence headlong plunge into the foaming Seas!

17

‘Else must thou weave, with humble Mind,
‘The Web, by some proud Dame assign'd,

376

‘(Born as thou art of Royal Line),
‘And serve, her lordly Husband's Concubine!’

18

Love's faithless Queen stood smiling by,
And listen'd to her soothing Cry;
And Cupid, with his Bow unbent,
Seem'd at her mournful Sorrows to relent.

19

Enough when she had mock'd her Pain,
‘Cease, cease, said Venus, to complain;
‘Suppress thy Sobs, thy Grief assuage;
‘Nor longer give a Loose to groundless Rage.

20

‘This wicked Steer shall soon extend
‘His glossy Horns, for Thee to rend.
‘Thy Rank with Temper learn to prove,
‘For know, thou art the Wife of sovereign Jove!

21

‘Exalted to this glorious State,
‘With grateful Heart accept thy Fate;
‘For of the World's divided Frame
‘One Half shall soon adopt Europa's Name!’

393

ODE XXVIII. To Lydé.

1

What Honours, Lydé, shall we pay
To Neptune on his Festal Day?
Produce your old Cæcubian Wine;
And each grave Thought for frolic Airs resign.

2

You see, from Noon declines the Sun;
And yet, as if he ceas'd to run,
You spare to broach the tardy Jar,
Laid up in Consul Bibulus's Year.

3

Our Voice, by Turns, to Neptune's Praise,
And to the Sea-green Nymphs, we'll raise:
Latona, to the tuneful String,
And quiver'd Cynthia, You alone shall sing.

394

4

In Chorus Her we'll praise, whose Sway
The shining Cyclades obey;
Who, drawn by Swans, her Paphian Plain
Revives: And favouring Night shall close our Strain.

395

ODE XXIX. To Mæcenas.

By John Dryden, Esq;

1.

Descended of an ancient Line,
That long the Tuscan Sceptre sway'd,
Make Haste to meet the generous Wine,
Whose Piercing is for Thee delay'd:
The rosy Wreath is ready made;

396

And artful Hands prepare
The fragrant Syrian Oyl, that shall perfume thy Hair.

2.

When the Wine sparkles from afar,
And the well-natur'd Friend cries, Come away;
Make Haste, and leave thy Business and thy Care,
No mortal Interest can be worth thy Stay.

3.

Leave, for a while, thy costly Country Seat;
And, to be great indeed, forget
The nauseous Pleasures of the Great.
Make Haste, and come;
Come, and forsake thy cloying Store;
Thy Turret, that surveys from high
The Smoke, and Wealth, and Noise of Rome;
And all the busy Pageantry,
That wise Men scorn, and Fools adore:
Come, give thy Soul a Loose, and taste the Pleasures of the Poor.

4.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the Rich, to try
A short Vicissitude, a Fit of Poverty.
A savoury Dish, a homely Treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,

397

Without the stately spacious Room,
The Persian Carpet, or the Tyrian Loom,
Clear up the cloudy Foreheads of the Great.

5.

The Sun is in the Lion mounted high;
The Sirian Star
Barks from afar,
And with his sultry Breath infects the Sky;
The Ground below is parch'd, the Heavens above us fry.
The Shepherd drives his fainting Flock
Beneath the Covert of a Rock,
And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh:
The Sylvans to their Shades retire,
Those very Shades and Streams, new Shades and Streams require;
And want a cooling Breeze of Wind, to fan the raging Fire.

6.

Thou, watchful o'er the City's Weal,
For Her a thousand Cares dost feel;
And what the Bactrian Arms will do,
And what the Quiver-bearing Foe,
Art anxiously inquisitive to know.

398

But Jove has wisely hid from human Sight
The dark Decrees of future Fate,
And sown their Seeds in Depth of Night;
He laughs at all the giddy Turns of State,
When Mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

7.

Enjoy the present smiling Hour,
And put it out of Fortune's Power.
The Tide of Business, like the running Stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet Ebb, or a tempestuous Flow;
And always in Extreme.
Now, with a noiseless gentle Course,
It keeps within the middle Bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the Head,
And bears down all before it with impetuous Force:
And Trunks of Trees come rolling down,
Sheep and their Folds together drown:
Both House and Homested into Seas are borne,
And Rocks are from their old Foundations torn,
And Woods, made thin with Winds, their scatter'd Honours mourn.

399

8.

Happy the Man, and happy he alone,
He who can call To-day his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
‘To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day;
‘Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
‘The Joys I have possess'd, in spite of Fate are mine.
‘Not Heaven itself upon the Past has Power;
‘But what has been, has been, and I have had my Hour.’

9.

Fortune, who with malicious Joy,
Does Man, her Slave, oppress,
Proud of her Office to destroy,
Is seldom pleas'd to bless.
Still various, and inconstant still,
But with an Inclination to be ill;
Promotes, degrades, delights in Strife,
And makes a Lottery of Life.
I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the Wind,
And shakes her Wings, and will not stay,
I puff the Prostitute away.
The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd.

400

Content with Poverty, my Soul I arm;
And Virtue, tho' in Rags, will keep me warm.

10.

What is't to Me,
Who never sail in her unfaithful Sea,
If Storms arise, and Clouds grow black;
If the Masts split, and threaten Wreck?
Then let the greedy Merchant fear
For his ill-gotten Gain,
And pray to Gods, who will not hear,
While the debating Winds and Billows bear
His Wealth into the Main.
For Me, secure from Fortune's Blows,
(Secure of what I cannot lose)
In my small Pinnace I can sail,
Contemning all the blust'ring Roar;
And, running with a merry Gale,
With friendly Stars my Safety seek
Within some little winding Creek,
And see the Storm a-shore.

403

ODE XXX.

[A monument on stable Base]

1

A monument on stable Base,
More strong than Brass, my Name shall grace;
Than Regal Pyramids more high,
Which Storms and Years unnumber'd shall defy.

2

My nobler Part shall swiftly rise
Above this Earth, and claim the Skies,

404

Long as the silent Maid attends,
While Jove's High Priest the Capitol ascends.

3

Old Aufidus, who loudly roars,
Where Daunus rul'd th'Apulian Shores,
Shall hear that I, with deathless Praise,
To Grecian Notes first tun'd the Roman Lays.

4

With conscious Pride, Melpomenè,
Assume the Honours due to thee,
And gladly round my Temples spread
The Laurel Wreath, that decks Apollo's Head.

406

The Same Ode Imitated.

On taking a Degree.

'Tis done:—I tower to that Degree,
And catch such heavenly Fire,
That Horace ne'er could rant like Me,
Nor is King's Chapel higher.

407

My Name in sure recording Page
Shall Time itself o'erpower,
If no rude Mice, with envious Rage,
The Buttery-Books devour.

A Title too, with added Grace,
My Name shall now attend,
Till to the Church, with silent Pace,
A Nymph and Priest ascend.

Ev'n in the Schools I now rejoice,
Where late I shook with Fear,
Nor heed the Moderator's Voice,
Loud thundering in my Ear.

Then with Æolian Flute I blow
A soft Italian Lay,
Or, where Cam's scanty Waters flow,
Releas'd from Lectures, stray.

408

Mean while, Friend Banks, my Merits claim
Their just Reward from You;
For Horace bids us challenge Fame,
When once that Fame's our Due.

Invest me with a Graduate's Gown,
'Midst Shouts of all Beholders;
My Head with ample Square-cap crown,
And deck with Hood my Shoulders!

The END of the THIRD BOOK.

409

THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

411

TO Alexander Strahan, Esq; This Fourth Book OF THE ODES of HORACE Is Inscribed BY His affectionate humble Servant, The Editor.

413

ODE I. To Venus.

O spare me, Venus!—Goddess, spare!
Nor wake the long-suspended War;
For chang'd I am, since first thy Chain
I wore, in gentle Cynara's Reign.
Mother too fierce of soft Desires,
Warm not my Breast with youthful Fires;
For, see! around my silver'd Head
Full fifty Years their Snow have spread.

414

To persecute thy Poet cease,
And let his Life decline in Peace.
Rather to blooming Youths repair,
Who seek thy Aid with ardent Prayer.
Would'st thou a worthy Heart inflame,
Young Paulus for thy Pupil claim;
And, gently wafted thro' the Sky
By purple Swans, to Paulus fly;
There from the golden Car alight,
And with thy Presence bless his Sight.
For he is graceful, nobly born;
A hundred Arts the Youth adorn;
A zealous Pleader in Defence
Of unbefriended Innocence:
He widely shall extend thy Sway,
And make the beauteous Nymphs obey.
Should his rich Rival strive in vain,
By Gifts the Maid he loves to gain,
Near Alba's Lake, by his Command,
Beneath a Citron Roof shall stand
Thy Marble Statue: Lovers there
The copious Incense shall prepare,
To scent thy Nostrils; and, around,
The Harp, the Flute, and Haut-boy sound,

415

In Concert with the joyous Lays,
Which twice a-Day, to chant thy Praise,
The Youths and Virgins shall repeat;
And, springing thrice with snowy Feet,
The Ground in Salian Measures beat.
Nor Maid I court, nor Matron now,
Nor gather Flowers to bind my Brow:
No more in Drinking I delight,
Nor pass in Revels half the Night;
Nor, vainly-fond, can hope to prove
The long-lost Joys of mutual Love.

But why, alas! say, Delia, why
Starts this fond Moisture from my Eye,
And trickles down my glowing Cheek?
Why do I faulter as I speak!
Why drops, in Words abrupt, my Tongue,
Which us'd to flow so smooth along?
I grasp you now, in nightly Dreams;
Now labour thro' the rolling Streams,
As swift you glide; or, o'er the Plain,
My cruel Fugitive pursue in vain.

417

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Again? new Tumults in my Breast?]

By Mr. Pope.

Again? new Tumults in my Breast?
Ah spare me, Venus! let me, let me rest!
I am not now, alas! the Man
As in the gentle Reign of my Queen Anne.
Ah sound no more thy soft Alarms,
Nor circle sober fifty with thy Charms.
Mother too fierce of dear Desires!
Turn, turn to willing Hearts your wanton Fires.
To Number five direct your Doves,
There spread round Murray all your blooming Loves;
Noble and young, who strikes the Heart
With every sprightly, every decent Part;
Equal, the injur'd to defend,
To charm the Mistress, or to fix the Friend.
He, with a hundred Arts refin'd,
Shall stretch thy Conquests over half the Kind:

418

To Him each Rival shall submit,
Make but his Riches equal to his Wit.
Then shall thy Form the Marble grace,
(Thy Grecian Form) and Chloe lend the Face:
His House, embosom'd in the Grove,
Sacred to social Life, and social Love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent Green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary Scene:
Thither the silver-sounding Lyres
Shall call the smiling Loves and young Desires;
There every Grace and Muse shall throng,
Exalt the Dance, or animate the Song;
There Youths and Nymphs, in Concert gay,
Shall hail the rising, close the parting Day.
With Me, alas! those Joys are o'er;
For Me the vernal Garlands bloom no more.
Adieu! fond Hope of mutual Fire,
The still believing, still renew'd Desire;
Adieu! the Heart-expanding Bowl,
And all the kind Deceivers of the Soul!
But why, ah tell me, ah too dear!
Steals down my Cheek th'involuntary Tear?
Why Words so flowing, Thoughts so free,
Stop, or turn Nonsense, at one Glance of Thee?

419

Thee, dress'd in Fancy's airy Beam,
Absent I follow thro' th'extended Dream;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy Charms,
And now you burst (ah cruel!) from my Arms;
And swiftly shoot along the Mall,
Or softly glide by the Canal,
Now shown by Cynthia's silver Ray,
And now on rolling Waters snatch'd away.

420

ODE II. To Antonius Julus.

Whoe'er would soar to Pindar's Height
Attempts a bold but dangerous Flight
On waxen Wings, and, lost to Shame,
Will give, like Icarus, the Sea a Name.
As, rais'd above its Banks by Showers,
A River from a Mountain pours,
Rolls Pindar his impetuous Song,
And with resistless Fury sweeps along.
Justly he claims Apollo's Bays,
Whether in free unfetter'd Lays,
Thro' Dithyrambic Metre bold,
New Words with lawless Energy are roll'd;
Or whether he, in measur'd Verse,
Of Gods, or Chiefs, the Praise rehearse;
Chiefs, sprung from Gods, whose Force could tame
[illeg.] Centaurs Might, and quench Chimæra's Flame.

421

If with some Bride, in moving Strains,
He of her Consort's Loss complains,
And to the Stars exalts the Youth,
For Courage, Piety, and ancient Truth;
Or if the Hero, crown'd with Palms,
Or Victor Courser he embalms,
His lasting Lays in Worth surpass
The breathing Marble, and sepulchral Brass!
When the Dircæan Swan would rise,
A Whirlwind bears him to the Skies:
But as the Bee, with ceaseless Toil,
From each fair Flower collects her balmy Spoil;
Laborious thus my weaker Muse
Light Themes in Tibur's Bower pursues:
But You shall to a bolder String
The just Applause of matchless Cæsar sing;
While round his Head the Laurel weaves,
For Conquests won, her verdant Leaves;
And the Sicambrian we survey,
In Fetters dragg'd along the Sacred Way.
Never was Gift so good and great
Bestow'd on Man by Heaven, or Fate,
Nor shall again, should Time be roll'd,
With backward Course, to his primæval Gold.

422

And You shall sing, in grateful Lays,
The Feasts that Rome to Cæsar pays;
The City's public Sports; the Bar
Freed from litigious Suits, and noisy War.
I too, with feeble Voice, will join
My Song to Your's; ‘O Phœbus! shine
‘Auspicious, with thy brightest Ray,
‘And grace the Rites of this distinguish'd Day.’
Then Incense to the Gods shall rise,
And shouting Iös rend the Skies;
All Rome shall join in choral Song,
As Cæsar's Train triumphant moves along.
Your Vow ten Bulls, as many Kine
Absolve; a sportive Heifer mine,
Wean'd from his Mother; on whose Brows,
Full in the Front, a Star its Lustre shows;
A Gloss of fallow Hue adorns
His Skin; the Crescent of his Horns,
So sharply turn'd, salutes the Sight,
Like Cynthia's Fires, the third revolving Night.

J. D.

426

Part of The Same Ode Imitated.

[Whoe'er, with impious Hand, essays]

To the Rev. Mr. Douglas.

Whoe'er, with impious Hand, essays
To sully Milton's spotless Lays,
In grisly Form will soon appear,
Like Lauder, touch'd with your Ithuriel-Spear.
As from Plinlimmon, swoln with Showers
And wintry Snows, Sabrina pours
Down Cambria's Vales; so Milton's Song
With unresisted Fury sweeps along.

427

Th'Homeric Wreath he well may claim,
(Like Him in Fortune as in Fame,)
Whether high Heaven resound th'Alarms
Of Angels and Archangels, clad in Arms;
Or whether he thro' Eden leads
Our Steps, o'er Lawns and flowery Meads,
Where the fring'd Bank green Myrtles crown,
And Shades, unpierc'd, the noon-tide Bowers imbrown.
Whene'er, to vain Delights a Foe,
He pensive strikes the Strings of Woe;
Or bids Euphrosyné the Lyre
Resume, and warble to the dancing Choir;
Or crowns his lost Companion's Shrine,
Or bids us Comus' Revels join;
Not Hayman's or Roubilliac's Art
Such Life, such Grace, such Energy impart!
Thro' Tracts conceal'd from mortal Sight
Our British Eagle wings his Flight,
And basks, undazzled at the Blaze,
Like his own Uriel, in the Solar Rays.
My Muse, with weak but arduous Toil,
Culls, like the Bee, her balmy Spoil,
Ambitious, in these classic Bowers,
To draw Horatian Sweets from British Flowers.

428

Mean while 'tis yours, with patriot Zeal,
This dark Imposture to reveal,
And deathless Amaranth, which grew
Fast by the Tree of Life, now blooms for You.

1751.

ODE III. To his Muse.

By Francis, Lord Bishop of Rochester.

He, on whose Birth the Lyric Queen
Of Numbers smil'd, shall never grace
The Isthmian Gauntlet, or be seen
First in the fam'd Olympic Race.
He shall not, after Toils of War,
And humbling haughty Monarchs Pride,
With laurel'd Brows conspicuous far,
To Jove's Tarpeïan Temple ride.

429

But Him the Streams, that warbling flow
Rich Tibur's fertile Meads along,
And shady Groves, his Haunts, shall know
The Master of th'Æolian Song.
The Sons of Rome, majestic Rome!
Have plac'd me in the Poet's Choir,
And Envy now, or dead, or dumb,
Forbears to blame what they admire.
Goddess of the sweet-sounding Lute,
Which thy harmonious Touch obeys,
Who can'st the finny Race, tho' mute,
To Cygnets dying Accents raise;
Thy Gift it is, that all with Ease
Me Prince of Roman Lyrics own;
That, while I live, my Numbers please,
If pleasing, is thy Gift alone!

430

The Same ODE Imitated.

[Whoe'er, to studious Leisure train'd]

Whoe'er, to studious Leisure train'd,
Has once a Fellowship obtain'd,
In Granta's learn'd Retreat,
No more with Syllogistic Cares
Perplex'd, at Dinner and at Prayers
Assumes a loftier Seat.
No more he echoes in the Hall,
With loud declamatory Brawl,
The Fame of Rome and Greece,
And crowns with a triumphal Car
Returning Heroes, great in War,
And amiable in Peace.

431

Now with his Brethren view him roll,
With many a Shrug, the winding Bowl
Along the level Green;
Now, unrestrain'd, behold him rove
On Cam's fair Borders, thro' the Grove,
Where Scholars ne'er are seen.
When seven long Years are now complete,
He in the Senate takes his Seat
Each Congregation Day;
And envies no applauded Wits,
While there on equal Terms he sits
By Mason, Hurd, and Gray.
By thy blest Aid, O powerful Grace!
The Sons of Lords obtain a Place
Among the Sons of Art;
Thou point'st a ready Way to Fame,
And ev'n to Dukes the sacred Name
Of Doctors can'st impart!

432

From thee our Votes and Voices flow,
To thee the silken Hoods we owe
That float adown our Shoulders;
By thee, on festal Days, the Gown
Of Scarlet charms the gaping Town,
And dazzles all Beholders.
Tho' thou hast oft bestow'd Rewards
On Statesmen, Sages, Peers and Bards,
And crown'd their high Deserts;
Yet wond'ring Strangers stare to see
Full many a Blockhead made by thee
A Master of the Arts.

433

ODE IV. The Praises of Drusus and Tiberius.

By George Jeffreys, Esq;

As Jove's imperial Bird, to whom the Sway
O'er all the feather'd Race was given,
(For so did he his faithful Favourite pay,
For wafting Ganymed to Heaven)
With native Vigour join'd to youthful Prime,
Springs from the Nest, tho' check'd by Fear,
Unwonted Heights with tender Wing to climb,
The Sky when Summer Breezes clear:
With hostile Rage the Spoiler next descends,
Impetuous, on the bleating Fold;
Thence, more assur'd, reluctant Dragons rends,
With Love of Prey and Combat bold:
Or as a Kid, on Pastures fair to graze
Intent, the Lion's Progeny,
Wean'd from his yellow Mother's Milk, surveys;
By Fangs in Slaughter new, to die;

434

Such Drusus the Vindelici beheld
Beneath the Alps, unmatch'd in War!
And, by a sage and youthful Leader quell'd,
The Troops, victorious long and far,
Prov'd what a Genius and a Mind could dare,
By Precept and Example taught;
And what, Augustus! thy Paternal Care
In either Nero's Bloom has wrought.
The Brave beget the Brave: The Bull, the Steed,
Are stamp'd upon their generous Race;
Nor is the Dove's unwarlike Brood decreed
The Royal Eagle to disgrace.
But Culture calls the hidden Vigour forth,
And Virtue, when on Learning built,
Confirms the Heart: In Blood, devoid of Worth,
The conscious Shame enhances Guilt.
What Rome her Neros owes, let Asdrubal
Be Witness, that decisive Day,
The first, that near Metaurus by his Fall
From Latium chas'd the Night away:
When the dire African to Mars, among
Th'Italian Cities gave the Rein,
Impetuous as the Flame, that runs along
The Pines, or Eurus o'er the Main.

435

From that bright Dawn the Roman Youth sustain'd,
With better Fate, the Toils of Fight:
And the sad Shrines, by Punic Foes profan'd,
Now found their Guardian Gods upright.
When Hannibal at length desponding spoke:
‘Like Stags, the Prey of Wolves, are We,
‘And rashly to the Fight such Foes provoke,
‘As to elude were Victory.
‘The Warrior Race, who to the Latian Coast,
‘From Ilium sunk in Grecian Fires,
‘Convey'd their Gods, on Tuscan Billows tost,
‘Their Offspring and their aged Sires,
‘Uninjur'd, like the widely-spreading Oak
‘On Algidus with Shade embrown'd,
‘Defy the sturdy Steel's repeated Stroke,
‘And draw new Vigour from the Wound.
‘Not baffled Hercules receiv'd a Foil
‘More grievous from the sprouting Store
‘Of Hydra's Heads; no greater Pest the Soil
‘Of Thebes or Colchis ever bore.
‘Plung'd in the Deep, more graceful thence they spring,
‘The Sons of dearly purchas'd Fame!
Tho' thrown, with vast Applause the Victor fling,
‘And Matrons their Exploits proclaim.

436

‘With lofty Tidings I shall ne'er again
‘My long-triumphant Carthage hail;
‘Lost, lost, in Asdrubal untimely slain,
‘Our Name's best Hope and Fortune fail!’
The Claudian Hands all Wonders shall perform,
By Jove's indulgent Aid secur'd,
And, by sagacious Care, to rule the Storm
Of well-conducted War, inur'd.

441

ODE V. To Augustus.

O born when Stars auspicious smil'd;
Of joyful Rome thou Guardian mild!
No longer let the Senate mourn,
But, faithful to thy Word, return!
Indulgent Chief, O! chear our Hearts,
For, as the Spring new Life imparts,
So, in thy Presence, smoother run
The Hours, and brighter shines the Sun.
As some fond Mother begs of Heaven,
Her Boy may to her Arms be given,
Whom Winds, with envious Blast, detain
Beyond the rough Carpathian Main;
Her Hands she raises to the Skies,
Nor from the Shore can turn her Eyes;
Thy Country, smit with warm Desires,
Devoutly thus her Lord requires!

442

For safe our Oxen graze the Plain,
And Ceres crowns with golden Grain
Our smiling Fields. From Shore to Shore,
The Merchant wafts his costly Store.
Justice her Head unblemish'd rears,
Nor any Violation fears.
Adultery, that spotted Crime,
No more pollutes our happy Clime.
Example has a powerful Sway,
The People Thine with Joy obey!
To the chaste Mother's just Renown,
By his like Son the Sire is known.
The Pains, to flagrant Vices due,
The bold Offender strait pursue.
If Cæsar be but safe, who fears
Th'enormous Sons Germania rears?
Who trembles at th'Iberian War,
Or Parthians, shooting from afar?
In his own Vineyard each Man spends
The Day; and with sweet Labour tends
His rural Task; to prune, or twine
Round the tall Elm the fruitful Vine;
Then takes a simple cheap Repaste;
And, ere he will presume to taste

443

The second Course, Libations pours,
And with his Houshold Gods adores
Cæsar belov'd!—We bless thy Name,
And join Thee living to the Fame
Of Castor and great Hercules,
The tutelary Gods of Greece!
‘May'st thou, indulgent Chief, prolong
‘Our Joy with many a Festal Song!’
Thus, sober in the Morn, we pray;
And, mellow, thus we close the Day.

447

The Same ODE Imitated.

To the King.

1

Guardian of Britain! come away,
Thy anxious People mourn thy Stay:
Haste, Anson, and restore
(Ere faithless Foes and wintry Skies
Alarm) a far more precious Prize
Than what you brought before.

2

Chase, best of Kings, these Shades of Night,
And bid once more returning Light
Her balmy Influence shed!
Thus chear'd, the Birds more blithe will sing;
The Sun new Glories wear; and Spring
Weave Flowers for Autumn's Head.

3

As some fond Mother, lost to Joy,
From China's Coast, her darling Boy
Expecting, Day by Day

448

Stands trembling, praying on the Shore,
Ev'n so thy Absence we deplore,
Ev'n so for Thee we pray.

4

For Freedom guards her favourite Isle,
By Thee secur'd; and with her Smile
Fair Plenty crowns our Toil:
While Justice deals her warmest Rays,
And Commerce to thy Realm conveys
The Wealth of every Soil.

5

When Thou art safe, in vain will France
Her Standards and her Sails advance;
Her Threat'nings we disdain;
For soon our Fleets shall scour the Sea,
And soon, we trust, our Arms shall free
The Ohio from her Chain.

6

Then the rude Indian, undismay'd,
Shall smoke, beneath his Plantane Shade
The Calumet of Peace;
By Ambuscades alarm'd no more;
For Conflagrations shall be o'er,
And scalping Horrors cease.

449

7

At thy dread Name the Chief shall bow
The plumy Honours of his Brow,
And, pleas'd, that Sovereign own,
Who bids him lay his Hatchet by,
And let his harmless Arrows fly
At savage Beasts alone.

8

While in his unpolluted Grove,
At Morn, at Night, his sable Love
Shall Britain's Praises sing;
And every Sachem of the Plain
A spicy Bowl to thee shall drain,
Their Father and their King!

1755.

450

ODE VI. To Apollo.

O Phœbus! whose unerring Darts,
With speedy Vengeance, pierc'd the Hearts
Of Niobe's opprobrious Crew,
And, bent on Rape, lewd Tityus slew,
And the proud Phthian Chief, whose Hand
No Trojan Hero could withstand!
Great as he was, in thee he found
A greater; prostrate on the Ground,
Like some tall Pine, which long had stood
Untouch'd, the Glory of the Wood;
Or Cypress, tow'ring o'er the Field,
By Winds or Axes forc'd to yield.
He would not in Minerva's Horse
Have basely pent the Grecian Force,
Pretending, at the parting Hour,
To pacify her wrathful Power;

451

Th'unguarded City to destroy,
While Priam gave a Loose to Joy:
But, in the Sun's Meridian Light,
With open Force, in generous Fight,
Had storm'd the Town! His ruthless Rage
Had doom'd to Death both Youth and Age;
And Infants, in their Mother's Womb,
Had found (O Shame!) an early Tomb,
Unless, in Pity to thy Prayers,
And lovely Cytherea's Tears,
Great Jove had to Æneas' Toil
New Walls assign'd in Latium's Soil.
O thou! who lead'st the sacred Choir
Of Greece, now tune the Daunian Lyre:
Hear, smooth Agyieus! pleas'd to lave
Thy flowing Locks in Xanthus' Wave.

To the two Choirs.

By Phœbus' heavenly Aid I claim
My Genius, and a Poet's Name.
Illustrious Maids! who Rome adorn,
And Youths! of noble Parents born,
Whom Delia (with unerring Bow
Skilful to pierce the Lynx or Doe,)

452

Still loves to cherish and defend,
To my Advice with Care attend!
Keep Measure with the Lesbian Foot,
And to my Lyre your Voices suit!
If with due Rites Latona's Son,
And Night's fair Lamp, th'increasing Moon,
Powerful to bless the springing Ground,
And swift to roll the Seasons round,
You sing devout; in holy Bands
Each Maid shall join her plighted Hands,
And married boast, ‘When festal Days
‘Began this Age, I join'd in Praise
‘Of all the Gods; well-skill'd to sing
‘Notes fitted to th'Horatian String.’

457

ODE VII. To Manlius Lucius Torquatus.

The Snow is melted. See! the Ground
Fresh Verdure wears; the Trees with Leaves are crown'd.
Earth smiles reviv'd. The Rivers know
Their Bounds, and gently in their Channels flow.
The Graces and the Wood-Nymphs dare,
With Face unveil'd, to dance in open Air.
The Hours, that whirl along the Day,
Admonish us of fleeting Life's Decay.
To Zephyr's soothing Power succeeds
Fierce Summer's Rage, and burns the thirsty Meads:
Then Autumn, crown'd with Apples, rears
His jovial Head: Slow Winter last appears,

458

Loaded with Ice, and Storms, and Rain,
Till Spring rolls round the various Year again.
The waning Moons their changeful Face
Monthly renew, and shine with wonted Grace.
But to the dreary Realms below
Who sink; must no Return for ever know!
Enroll'd among the mighty Dead,
Our Body will be Dust, our Soul a Shade.
Old Charon to the Stygian Shore
Pious Æneas, Tullus, Ancus, bore.
What Mortal can presume to say,
The Gods to this will add another Day?
Indulge your Genius then, nor spare
Your Treasure, to enrich a greedy Heir!
When You among the Shades are cast,
And Minos has the solemn Sentence past;
Nor Birth, Torquatus! Eloquence,
Nor Piety, can e'er recall you thence.
The Sylvan Goddess wish'd in vain,
Her chaste Hippolytus from Styx to gain.
Nor could great Theseus ever rend
The Adamantine Fetters of his Friend.

461

ODE VIII. To Martius Censorinus.

Could I Parrhasius' Works command,
Or those which own great Scopas' Hand,
(A Hero This, or God display'd
In Marble; That with Light and Shade,)
A Cauldron, curiously imbost,
A Tripod or a Bowl of Cost,
Rewards which Grecian Leaders gave,
To crown the Merits of the Brave,
I gladly to my Friends would give,
Nor You the meanest should receive.
But these rich Gifts my Power exceed,
And such you neither prize nor need.
You Verse admire; I Verse can send,
And of the Gift the Worth commend.

The Pillars in the Forum plac'd
At public Charge, with Titles grac'd,

462

By which great Chiefs themselves survive,
And after Death with Honour live;
And Hannibal, driv'n back with Shame,
Cannot so widely spread his Fame,
Who did from conquer'd Afric gain
His Name, as Ennius' deathless Strain.
Unless the Muse your Worth record,
It can receive no just Reward.
Who would have known, if left unsung,
The Son of Mars, from Ilia sprung,
Had envious Silence hid from View
The Praise to Rome's great Founder due?
The Bards by Song and powerful Lays
Did Æacus from Darkness raise,
And consecrate, o'er happy Isles
A God, where Spring eternal smiles.
The Muse forbids the Man to die,
Who merits Immortality:
In Heaven she seats him; thus, with Jove
Alcides feasts in Realms above.
Thus the Twin Stars, indulgent, save
The shatter'd Vessel from the Wave;
And Bacchus, crown'd with Ivy, hears
His Votaries Vows, and speeds their Prayers!

464

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Did but kind Fate to Me impart]

By Soame Jenyns, Esq;

To the Right Hon. Philip Lord Viscount Royston.

Did but kind Fate to Me impart
Wealth equal to my generous Heart,
Some curious Gift to every Friend,
A Token of my Love, I'd send;
But still the choicest and the best
Should be consign'd to Friends at Wrest.

An Organ, which, if right I guess,
Would best please Lady Marchioness,
Should first be sent by my Command,
Worthy of her inspiring Hand:
To Lady Bell, of nicest Mold,
A Coral, set in burnish'd Gold:
To You, well knowing what you like,
Portraits by Lely or Vandyke,
A curious Bronze, or Bust antique.

465

But since these Gifts exceed my Power,
And You (who need not wish for more,
Already blest with all that's fine)
Are pleas'd with Verse, tho' such as mine;
As Poets us'd in ancient Times,
I'll make my Present all in Rhymes:
And, lest you should forget their Worth,
Like them, I'll set their Value forth.

Not monumental Brass or Stones,
The Guardians of heroic Bones,
Not Victories won by Marlb'rough's Sword,
Nor Titles, which those Deeds record,
Such Glories o'er the Dead diffuse,
As can the Labours of the Muse.
But if she should her Aid deny,
With You your Virtues all must die;
Nor Tongues unborn shall ever say,
How wise, how good, was Lady Grey!

Nay, what would now have been the Doom
Of him, who built imperial Rome?
Or him, whose Virtues all adore,
Who fed the Hungry, cloath'd the Poor,

466

Clear'd Streams and Bridges laid across,
And built the little Church of Ross;
Did not th'eternal Powers of Verse,
From Age to Age, their Deeds rehearse?

The Muse forbids the Brave to die,
Bestowing Immortality:
Still by her Aid, in blest Abodes,
Alcides feasts among the Gods:
And royal Arthur still is able
To fill his high-pil'd generous Table
With English Beef, and English Knights,
And looks with Pity down on White's.

ODE IX. To Lollius.

1

Think not, my Lollius, that the Song
Shall perish, which I chant, along
Rough Aufidus's sounding Shore,
With Art, to Roman Ears unknown before!

467

2

The noblest Wreath tho' Homer claim,
Yet Pindar swells the Trump of Fame:
The grave Stesichorus still charms,
And still to Battle, bold Alcæus warms.

3

Simonides, with soothing Flow,
Trills forth his soft melodious Woe;
And blithe Anacreon's sportive Lay
Still lives, in spite of Time's destructive Sway.

4

Enchanting Sappho's Lyric Muse
In every Breast must Love infuse;
Love breathes on every tender String,
And still in melting Notes we hear her sing.

5

Not only sigh'd the Spartan Fair,
Charm'd by a Lover's graceful Hair,
Whom Splendor, Pomp, and rich Attire
Fondly allur'd to fan the fatal Fire.

6

Nor Teucer was the first, who knew
With Skill to bend the Cretan Yew.

468

Troy more than once has been destroy'd,
And vengeful Gods to raze her Walls employ'd.

7

Not great Idomeneus alone,
And Sthenelus deserve Renown:
Others before as boldly fought,
And Actions worthy of the Muses wrought.

8

Not Hector first, profuse of Life,
Bore glorious Wounds to guard his Wife,
And singly clear'd th'ensanguin'd Field,
His much-lov'd Boy and aged Sire to shield.

9

Before Atrides, brave in Fight
Reign'd many Kings; but endless Night
To all denies our Tears and Praise,
For never were they grac'd with sacred Lays.

10

If worthy Deeds no Glory gain,
To what avail your Cares and Pain?
Virtue conceal'd, unknown to Fame,
From Indolence scarce differs but in Name.

469

11

You shall not with the vulgar Throng
Pass silent, unadorn'd in Song:
Your various Toils shall crown my Page,
And baffle Envy and forgetful Age.

12

Let Fortune smile, or prove unkind,
You still maintain a steady Mind.
Attractive Gold, which all obey,
Your purer Honour would in vain betray.

13

Not only Consul for a Year,
But long as, faithful and sincere,
With noble Pride You Bribes despise,
And a fair Fame above all Treasure prize.

14

Style not those happy who abound
In Wealth, with Stores profusely crown'd:
To him alone that Name be given,
Who rightly knows to use the Gifts of Heaven;

15

Hard Poverty who dauntless bears,
But, more than Death, Dishonour fears,

470

And for his Friend's or Country's Good,
Would generously dare to spill his Blood!

473

The Same ODE Imitated.

To the Right Hon. John Earl of Corke and Orrery.

Think not, my Lord, these Strains shall die,
Or sink in Lethe's Stream;
No—they shall Time's rude Grasp defy,
Protected by their Theme.
Tho' foremost in the Lists of Fame
We matchless Milton place,
Yet long will Pope's distinguish'd Name
The Muse's Annals grace.
Tho' Nature's own heart-melting Lyre
Immortal Shakespeare won,
Still deigns the Goddess to inspire
Her favourite Richardson.
Our Edwards and our Henries Praise
Grows with increasing Years,
And Britons still attune their Lays
To Cressy and Poictiers;

474

Yet shall each Veteran Chief with Flowers
Bestrew his Anna's Shrine,
And long to Fame shall Blenheim's Towers
Their Marlb'rough's Deeds consign.
Before great Alfred, we could boast
Of Princes brave and good,
Yet all, by Bards unsung, are lost
In dark Oblivion's Flood.
In Marston's Shades unseen, unknown,
Conceal'd thy Virtues lie;
O let them now, in Senate shown,
Attract the public Eye.
Tho' every Muse her Spirit breathes
On Thee; and every Grace
Adorns thy Brow with Olive Wreaths,
Familiar to thy Race;
Yet now the Converse of the Dead
For active Scenes decline;
For O! the Living want each Head,
And claim each Heart like thine.
To Laurentinum's Grove retir'd,
Thy Pliny fled from Care,
Yet, when his Country's Voice requir'd,
He fill'd the Consul's Chair.

475

Then, like that Consul, lend thy Aid
To prop our tottering Walls;
For Rome demands thee from the Shade,
And hoary Nerva calls.

1757.

J. D.

ODE X. To Ligurina.

By J. M. M. A. late of Oriel-College, Oxford.

Blest as thou art with Beauty's Arms,
And proudly wanton in Excess of Charms,
What tho' kind Venus decks thy Face
With all the blushing Violet's purple Grace?
What tho' she taught that Hair to break
In easy Ringlets, o'er thy polish'd Neck?
Pale Age shall soon that Face invade,
And thy grey Locks forget their nut-brown Shade
Then at thy Glass (if there that Day
Thou dar'st to look) repentant thou shalt say,

476

‘Why were the Charms of Youth consign'd
‘In vain Profusion to so proud a Mind?
‘Or why, since now that Pride is o'er,
‘Will Youth with all its Charms return no more?’

ODE XI. To Phyllis.

Of Alban Wine, full nine Years old,
My Vault is proud a Cask to hold:
To weave a Chaplet for your Head,
My Garden is with Parsley spread,
And Ivy, in a Knot behind,
The Tresses of my Fair to bind.
My Altar, crown'd with vervain Bands,
The Lamb's devoted Blood demands.
With shining Plate my Side-board's grac'd;
My Boys and Girls, with busy Haste,
Run to and fro—From trembling Fires
The Smoke in dusky Clouds aspires.

477

If You should now enquire, what Feast
Demands the Presence of my Guest;
Know that this Day the Month divides,
O'er which the Queen of Love presides;
And first the Light this happy Day
Did to Mæcenas' Eyes display,
Ev'n than my own almost more dear:
This Day, thro' each revolving Year,
I'll grateful every God implore,
On him their choicest Gifts to pour.

Fair Telephus, on whom you doat,
(That noble Youth above your Lot)
A rich and wanton Nymph detains,
And holds fast bound in pleasing Chains.
Proud Phaëton, from highest Heaven
By angry Jove with Lightning driven,
And Pegasus, who scorn'd to bear
His mortal Rider thro' the Air,
But headlong threw; this Lesson teach,
Not to aspire above our Reach.
Come then, the last whom I shall love,
(No future Nymph my Heart can move)

478

And with your tuneful Voice prepare,
To sing some soft and soothing Air.
Music and Poësy compose
The troubled Breast, and lull our Woes.

479

ODE XII. To Virgil.

The Spring's Companions, Thracian Gales,
Now fan the Sea and swell the Sails.
The Meads no more with Frost are seen
Deform'd, but shine in native Green.
No longer in loud Torrents flow
The Streams, increas'd with wintry Snow.
Her Nest the busy Swallow rears,
And in harsh Notes her Woes declares.
The Swain now tunes his rural Reed,
Grateful to Pan; (while round him feed
His fleecy Charge;) the Flocks who loves,
And haunts Arcadia's shady Groves.
Virgil! (whom Cæsar's princely Race
With Patronage and Friendship grace,)
The warmer Season Thirst excites,
And gaily to soft Joys invites;
But if the rich reviving Juice,
Which the Calenian Grapes produce,

480

You here expect with Me to share,
You must the fragrant Oyl prepare;
Of Spikenard a small Box procures
A Jar of Wine from Galba's Stores,
Powerful to chear the gloomy Soul,
Raise languid Hope, and Care controul.
If then you chuse, this genial Night
To give with Horace to Delight;
Haste with your Quota to my Feast;
I ask no empty-handed Guest:
To treat you at my proper Cost,
Requires more Wealth than I can boast.

A while the anxious Search of Gain,
Indulgent to yourself, restrain.
Mindful of Death, without Delay,
Then seize the present passing Day:
Severer Cares with Mirth relieve,
And a few Hours to Folly give.
'Tis sweet to trifle with a Friend
In Season, and our Thoughts unbend.

482

The Same Ode Imitated.

[Observe how calmly warm, my Friend]

To Charles Pratt, Esq;

By J. W. Fellow of King's College, Cambridge.

Observe how calmly warm, my Friend,
Oe'r the smooth Plain the Zephyrs blow,
While Trees in gentlest Motion bend,
And Streams scarce murmur as they flow.

Sweet Philomela trills her Song
Of pleasing Sadness through the Groves,
Wailing a wretched Virgin's Wrong,
And a base King's incestuous Loves.

The Shepherds to the Shades repair,
And on the Grass their Lays indite;
Which the great Patron of their Care,
Arcadia's listening God, delight.

483

Thirst, with the Season, Charles, comes on;
Would you not then in Thirst repine,
Bring the sleek Soal, or Turbot, down,
And well you shall be paid with Wine.

See! as the sounding Cork bursts forth,
Pale Care and Sadness startled fly;
And all Reflections, Foes to Mirth,
Drown'd in the sparkling Brimmer lie.

If then you'll throw your Coke aside,
To such enlivening Joys inclin'd,
Quick mount your Steed, and briskly ride,
And bid Tom bring the Fish behind.

For think not gratis to come off,
Or tipple, scot-free, at my Board,
As when o'er sumptuous Meals you laugh,
With yon fair Villa's bounteous Lord.

Come then, nor rack your Brains to know
How many Fees would Wimple buy;
Come; and, considering as you go,
That Hardwicke's 'self at last must die,

Severity for Folly leave,
Best Successor to puzzling Laws;

484

In public Life however grave,
Be gay in private with Applause.

1745.

ODE XIII.

[Lyce, at length my Vows are heard]

By Richard Roderick, Esq;

Lyce , at length my Vows are heard,
My Vows so oft to Heaven preferr'd;
Welcome, thy silver'd Hairs!
In vain thy Affectation gay,
To hide the manifest Decay;
In vain thy youthful Airs!

If still thy Cheeks preserve a Blush,
With Heat of Wine, not Youth, they flush,
Unamiable Stain!
If still thou warblest, harsh the Note,
When trembling Age shakes in the Throat
Th'involuntary Strain.

Think'st thou can these my Love prolong?
(Ungrateful Blush! untuneful Song!)
Or rival Hebe's Charms?

485

Hebe melodious, Hebe fair,
For Judgment swells her rapt'rous Air,
And Youth her Blushes warms.

The rosy Cheek, the Forehead smooth,
Those native Ornaments of Youth,
Once lost, are lost for aye:
No Art can smooth, no Paint repair,
The furrow'd Face; no Diamond's Glare
Give Lustre to Decay.

What now of all which once was thine,
Feature, Complexion, Mien divine,
Remains the Sense to charm?
Why now command they not my Love?
Once they prevail'd; though Cynara strove
Their Empire to disarm.

Cynara!—alas, thou much-lov'd Name!
Thou, full of Beauty, full of Fame,
Found'st an untimely Urn!
While Lyce, 'reft of every Grace
T'enrich the Mind, t'adorn the Face,
Still lives the public Scorn!

486

ODE XIV. To Augustus.

1

How shall the Senate, how the People's Care,
To faithful Annals thy Exploits consign,
What worthy Monuments prepare,
To make thy Virtues shine,
And to each future Age thy spreading Glory bear?

2

O greatest Prince, that in his annual Round
The Sun surveys; whom late, though void of Fear,
The fierce Vindelici have found
Invincible in War,
{An}d felt thee less in Fiction than by Deeds renown'd.

487

3

For Drusus led thy conquering Legions on;
And oft the wild Genaunian Nation broke:
The nimble Breunians too, o'erthrown,
Confess the Roman Yoke;
And their strong Alpine Forts his matchless Courage won.

4

Next, elder Nero claims the like Applause,
Who the huge Rhœtians, dreadful in the Field,
With Slaughters tir'd: In Freedom's Cause,
Unknowing how to yield,
They generous Victims fell for their dear Country's Laws.

5

As furious Auster's unresisted Course
Provokes the Billows when the Pleïads glow
Through parting Clouds; with equal Force,
He dauntless charg'd the Foe,
And, 'midst the Heat of Battle, urg'd his foaming Horse.

488

6

Or as horn'd Aufidus the Bounds disdains,
Which guide him, rolling through Apulia's States,
When, swell'd with melting Snow or Rains,
He, rising, meditates
Swift with his Torrent-floods to deluge all the Plains!

7

So Claudius, rapid in his wide Career,
Forc'd the Barbarians, cas'd in Steel, to yield,
And, with small Loss, from Front to Rear,
Mow'd down the standing Field,
While with thy Council, Arms, and Gods, he led the War.

8

For on that Day when Ægypt's empty Throne
Hail'd Thee her Lord, the Fates who love to bless,
And thy unrival'd Title own,
By fifteen Years Success,
On that returning Day they now thy Glory crown.

489

9

The fierce Cantabrian, not to be o'ercome
But by thy Arms, the Indian and the Mede,
The Scythian, lurking now at home,
Justly thy Prowess dread,
O tutelary God of Italy and Rome!

10

The Nile's mysterious Springs thy Grace implore,
The rapid Tigris, the wide Danube bends
To Thee! E'en to the British Shore
Thy awful Sway extends,
Where Tempests rage, and monster-teeming Billows roar!

11

Thy Name Iberia's hardy Sons alarms;
Alarms the Gauls, who Death undaunted meet:
The wild Sicambrian lays his Arms,
Submissive, at thy Feet;
While Thirst of Blood no more his savage Vengeance charms.

497

ODE XV. To Augustus.

To sing of Wars when I aspire,
And conquer'd Cities; with his Lyre
Apollo check'd me; ‘Dare not brave
‘With thy weak Skiff the Tyrrhene Wave.’
'Twas fix'd by Fate, that Cæsar's Reign
Should clothe the Fields with plenteous Grain,
And Trophies to our Jove restore,
Which Parthian Pillars proudly bore.
The Fane, that by Quirinus rose
To Janus, free from War You close,
Licentious Crimes by Law subdue,
And Latium's ancient Arts renew,
By which, e'en from his Western Bed,
To Phœbus' Rise, our Empire spread.
While Cæsar reigns, nor civil Jars
Shall break our Peace, nor foreign Wars,

498

Nor Discord's Rage, that forges Arms,
And fills the World with dire Alarms;
Who drink the Danube's Stream profound,
Are by the Julian Edicts bound:
The faithless Parthians now obey;
The Getes and Seres own his Sway:
The People, born where Tanaïs flows,
Dare not his mighty Name oppose.

We, with our Wives and blooming Train,
(Thus did our Sires of old ordain)
Invoking first the Powers divine,
With Lydian Flutes our Songs will join,
And, as thy Blessings, Bacchus, flow,
Which chear the Heart, and banish Woe,
On common, as on festal Days,
Of our old Heroes sing the Praise;
And Troy, Anchises, and the Race
Of Beauty's Queen our Songs shall grace.

503

The End of the Fourth Book.