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Horace in London

Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith]

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 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
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 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
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 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
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 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
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 XIV. 
ODE XIV.
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150

ODE XIV.

[Ah me! on his wide-waving pinions]

Eheu! fugaces, Posthume, Posthume.

To any Great Man.
Ah me! on his wide-waving pinions,
Time carries us on day by day,
And downwards to Pluto's dominions
We mortals are posting away.
Not Huntingdon, cleansed from his errors,
And dubb'd by diploma S. S.
Has yet taught the monarch of terrors
To dine on one mouthful the less.
Sage Solomon's Gilead potion
No chronic disease can assuage;
O Gowland, how vain is thy lotion,
To blot out the wrinkles of age!

151

Whole hecatombs, vainly we proffer
To hell's unappeasable chief,
Old Iron-cheek laughs at the offer,
And swallows down us and our beef!
We all in one pinnace are rowing,
The haven we seek is the grave;
The Stygian waters are flowing,
Alike for the monarch and slave.
We shun the rude billows of Ocean,
We shrink from the wind and the rain,
We fly from the battle's commotion,
And dodge the grim serjeant in vain.
The bourn we have all such a dread of
We quickly must visit below,
And talk with the heroes we read of
In Lyttleton, Lucian, and Rowe.
Good bye to your farm and your stables,
Farewell to your liveried train;
Your well-jointur'd widow in sables,
Shall mourn like the twice mated Dane.

152

That nodding plantation to-morrow
For some other owner shall bloom,
The yew tree alone in mute sorrow
Shall sullenly wave o'er your tomb.
This house, when it boasts a new dweller,
Shall bid thrifty prudence farewell;
Your son, with the keys of the cellar,
Shall tinkle your funeral knell.
Your claret shall flow like a river,
Your old bottled port set adrift,
Shall drown every thought of the giver
In frolicksome love of the gift.