ODES FROM HORACE.

TO MÆCENAS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIRST.

I.

Mæcenas, from Etrurian Princes sprung, For whom my golden lyre I strung, Friend, Patron, Guardian of its rising song, O mark the Youth, that towers along, With triumph in his air; Proud of Olympic dust, that soils His burning cheek and tangled hair! Mark how he spreads the palm, that crown'd his toils! Each look the throbbing hope reveals That his fleet steeds and kindling wheels, Swept round the skilfully-avoided goal, Shall with illustrious Chiefs his echo'd name enrol.

II.

Who the civic crown obtains, Or bears into his granaries large The plenteous tribute of the Libyan Plains; Or he, who watches still a rural charge, O'er his own fields directs the plough, Sees his own fruitage load the bough; These would'st thou tempt to brave the faithless main, And tempt with regal wealth, thy effort should be vain.

I.

The stormy South howls thro' the sullen cloud, Contending billows roar aloud! The Merchant sees the gathering danger rise, And sends a thousand yearning sighs To his dear shelter'd home.— Its shades receive him;—but the tides Grow smooth;—the wild winds cease to roam; And see!—his new-trimm'd vessel gaily rides!— Fir'd with the hope of wealth, once more He quits, so hardly gain'd, the shore; Watches, with eager eye, th' unfurling sail, Nor casts one look behind to the safe, sylvan vale.

II.

[1]The youth of gay, luxurious taste, Breaks, in the ārbutus' soft shade, The precious day with interrupting feast; Or quaffs, by some clear fountain in a glade, The mellow wine of ruby gleam, While in vain the purer stream Courts him, as gently the green bank it laves, To blend th' enfevering draught with its pellucid waves.

I.

Th' uplifted trumpet, and the clarion, send, Confus'd, the mingled clang afar; Lo! while the Matron's tender breast they rend, Her Soldier hails that din of war.— The wood-land Chase desired, Far other sounds the Hunter charms; By the enlivening shout inspired, He breaks from his young Bride's encircling arms; Nor heeds the morning's wintry gale, While his deep-mouth'd hounds inhale The tainted breeze, or hold the stag at bay, Or while, from his strong toils, the wild boar bursts away.

II.

[2]Thee bright Learning's ivy crown Exalts above a mortal fate; Me shady Groves, light Nymphs, and Satyrs brown, Raise o'er the Crowd, in sweet sequester'd state. And there is heard the Lesbian lute, And there Euterpe's Dorian flute; But, should'st thou rank me with the lyric Choir, To Glory's starry heights thy Poet would aspire.—

TO PYRRHA.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE FIFTH.

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave, Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy, Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave, Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy? For whom the simple band dost thou prepare, That lightly fastens back thy golden hair?

Alas! how soon shall this devoted Youth Love's tyrant sway, and thy chang'd eyes deplore, Indignant curse thy violated truth, And count each broken promise o'er and o'er, Who hopes to meet, unconscious of thy wiles, Looks ever vacant, ever facile smiles!

He, inexperienc'd Mariner! shall gaze In wild amazement on the stormy deep, Recall the flattery of those sunny days, That lull'd each ruder wind to calmest sleep. 'T was then, with jocund hope, he spread the sail, In rash dependence on the faithless gale.

Ah Wretch! to whom untried thou seemest fair! By me, who late thy halcyon surface sung, [1]The walls of Neptune's fane inscrib'd, declare That I have dank and dropping garments hung, Devoted to the God, whose kind decree Snatch'd me to shore, from an o'erwhelming sea.

TO [1]MUNATIUS PLANCUS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE SEVENTH.

Be far-fam'd [2]Rhodes the theme of loftier strains, Or [3]Mitylene, as their Bard decrees; Or Ephesus, where great Diana reigns, Or Corinth, towering 'twixt the rival seas; Or Thebes, illustrious in thy birth divine, Purpureal Bacchus;—or of Phœbus' shrine Delphos oracular; or warbling hail Thessalian Tempe's flower-embroider'd vale.

The Art-crown'd City, chaste Minerva's pride, There are, whose endless numbers have pourtray'd; They, to each tree that spreads its branches wide, Prefer the [4]tawny Olive's scanty shade. Many, in Juno's honor, sing thy meads, Green Argos, glorying in thy agile steeds; Or opulent Mycene, whose proud fanes The blood of murder'd Agamemnon stains.

Nor patient Lacedæmon wakes my lyre, Who trains her Sons to all the Warrior's toil; Nor me [5]Larissa's airy graces fire, Tho' round her hills the golden vallies smile: But my lov'd mansion, 'mid the circling wood, On the green bank of clear Albūnea's flood, Its walls resounding with the echo'd roar, As Anio's torrents down the mountain pour.

Amid my blooming orchards pleas'd I rove, Guiding the ductile course of murmuring rills; Or mark the curtains of the sacred grove Sink in the vales, or sweep along the hills. [6]Ah Friend! if round my cell such graces shine, The Palace of Tiburnian Shades is thine; She every feature of the Scene commands, And Empress of its varied beauty stands.

Tho' frequent mists the young Favonius shroud, Bending his flagging wing with heavy rains, Yet oft he chases every showery cloud, Winnowing, with pinion light, th' aerial plains; Ah! thus from thee let each dark vapor roll, That rash Ambition gathers on the soul; The jocund Pleasures in her absence rise, Glow in the breast, and sparkle in the eyes.

And thou, Munatius, whether Fate ordain The Camp thy home, with glancing javelins bright; Or if the graces of that fair domain, Umbrageous Tivoli, thy steps invite; If trumpets sound the clang that Warriors love, Or round thee trill the choirings of the grove, In flowing bowls drown every vain regret, Enjoy the Present, and the Past forget!

The walls of Salamis when Teucer fled, Driven by a Parent's unrelenting frown, Hope from his spirit chas'd each anxious dread, While on his brow he bound the poplar crown; In rich libation pour'd the generous wine, Then bath'd his temples in the juice divine; And thus, with gladden'd eye, and air sedate, Address'd the drooping Followers of his fate.

“Wherever Destiny, a kinder friend Than he who gave me birth, may point the way, Thither resolv'd our duteous steps shall bend, Nor know presaging fear, nor weak delay. Doubt flies when Teucer leads, and cold despair, In Teucer's auspices, shall melt to air; Phœbus ordains that, in more favoring skies, Another prosp'rous Salamis shall rise.

“So much alike her fountains, fanes, and bowers, That e'en her name shall dubious meaning bear;— Then, my lov'd Friends, who oft, in darker hours, Have shar'd with me a conflict more severe, O! let us lose in wine our sorrow's weight, And rise the masters of our future fate! This night we revel in convivial ease, To-morrow seek again the vast and pathless seas.”

TO LYDIA.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE EIGHTH.

O, Lydia! I conjure thee tell Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ The strongest power of amorous spell On Sybaris, belov'd too well, Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?

Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare, Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat? Ceases the Warrior-vest to wear In which he us'd, with graceful air, Aspiring Youths, all emulous, to meet?

Why is it now no more his pride To rein the ardent horse with agile arm? With new-strung sinews to divide The yellow Tyber's angry tide, When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?

Why hates he, as the viper's gore, The Wrestler's oil, that supples every vein? Why do we see his arms no more With livid bruises spotted o'er, Of manly sports the honorable stain?

'T was his to whirl, with matchless skill, The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw, While Crowds, with acclamations shrill, The lofty Circus joy'd to fill, And all the honors of the Day bestow.

Such fond seclusion why desire?— Thus Thetis' care her blooming Son conceal'd, Ere yet commenc'd that Contest dire, When mournful gleam'd the funeral pyre, Thro' ten long years, on Ilium's purpled field.

In vain the female vest he wore, That Love maternal might avert his fate; Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore, Lest sinking Troy his force deplore, And Death with Glory meet him at her gate.

TO [1]THALIARCHUS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH.

In dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers, As all the mountain were one heap of snow! Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers; The frost-bound waters can no longer flow.

Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth, Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins; Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth, Nor heed th' arrested streams, or slippery plains.

High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway, Speaks!—The wild elements contend no more; Nor then, from raging seas, the foamy spray Climbs the dark rocks, or curls upon the shore.

And peaceful then yon aged ash shall stand; In breathless calm the dusky cypress rise; To-morrow's destiny the Gods command, To-day is thine;—enjoy it, and be wise!

Youth's radiant tide too swiftly rolls away; Now, in its flow, let pleasures round thee bloom; Join the gay dance, awake the melting lay, Ere hoary tresses blossom for the tomb!

Spears, and the Steed, in busy camps impel; And, when the early darkness veils the groves, Amid the leafless boughs let whispers steal, While frolic Beauty seeks the near alcoves.

Soft as thy tip-toe steps the mazes rove, A laugh, half-smother'd, thy pleas'd ear shall meet, And, sportive in the charming wiles of love, Betray the artifice of coy retreat;

And then the ring, or, from her snowy arm, The promis'd bracelet may thy force employ; Her feign'd reluctance, height'ning every charm, Shall add new value to the ravish'd toy.

TO LEUCONOE.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE ELEVENTH.

Leuconoe, cease presumptuous to inquire Of grave Diviner, if successive years Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre, For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears! Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow, Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;

If many winters on the naked trees Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost, Or this for us the last, that from the seas Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast.— Short since thou know'st the longest vital line, Nurse the near hope, and pour the rosy wine.

E'en while we speak our swiftly-passing Youth Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion's shore; Then shall the Future terrify, or sooth, Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore? The Morrow's faithless promise disavow, And seize, thy only boast, the golden Now.

TO APOLLO.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-FIRST.

What asks the Poet, when he pours His first libation in the Delphic Bowers? Duteous before the altar standing, With lively hope his soul expanding, O! what demands he, when the crimson wine Flows sparkling from the vase, and laves the golden shrine?

Not the rich and swelling grain That yellows o'er Sardinia's isle; Nor snowy herds, slow winding thro' the plain, When warm Calabria's rosy mornings smile; Nor gold, nor gems, that India yields, Nor yet those fair and fertile fields, Which, thro' their flow'ry banks as calm he glides, The silent [1]Liris' azure stream divides.

Let those, for whom kind fortune still Leads lavish tendrils o'er the sloping hill, Let such, with care their vineyard dressing, Their bursting grapes assiduous pressing, Gather, self-gratulant, the costly store, And of the future year propitious suns implore!

May luscious wines, in cups of gold, Oft for the wealthy Merchant flow! Nor let cold Thrift those plenteous draughts withhold That prosperous Commerce shall again bestow. The flowing bowl he safely drains, Since every favouring God ordains That more than [2]once, within the circling year, His prow shall o'er the smooth Atlantic steer.

Me, let tawny olives feed! Me, lenient mallows from the simple mead! Son of Latona, grant the blessing, That, a cloudless mind possessing, And not infirm of frame, in soft decay, Cheer'd by the breathing lyre, my life may pass away!

TO HIS ATTENDANT.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose, Of artful fold, and rich brocade; Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers. Ah! search not where the latest rose Yet lingers in the sunny glade; Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid! I charge thee with the myrtle wreath Not one resplendent bloom entwine; We both become that modest band, As stretch'd my vineyard's ample shade beneath, Jocund I quaff the rosy wine; While near me thou shalt smiling stand, And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.

TO SALLUST.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE SECOND.

Dark in the Miser's chest, in hoarded heaps, Can Gold, my Sallust, one true joy bestow, Where sullen, dim, and valueless it sleeps, Whose worth, whose charms, from circulation flow? Ah! then it shines attractive on the thought, Rises, with such resistless influence fraught As puts to flight pale Fear, and Scruple cold, Till Life, e'en Life itself, becomes less dear than Gold.

Rome, of this power aware, thy honor'd name O Proculeius! ardently adores, Since thou didst bid thy ruin'd Brothers claim A filial right in all thy well-earn'd stores.— To make the good deed deathless as the great, Yet fearing for her plumes [1]Icarian fate, This Record, Fame, of precious trust aware, Shall long, on cautious wing, solicitously bear.

And thou, my Sallust, more complete thy sway, Restraining the insatiate lust of gain, Than should'st thou join, by Conquest's proud essay, Iberian hills to Libya's sandy plain; Than if the Carthage sultry Afric boasts, With that which smiles on Europe's lovelier coasts, Before the Roman arms, led on by thee, Should bow the yielding head, the tributary knee.

See bloated Dropsy added strength acquire As the parch'd lip the frequent draught obtains; Indulgence feeds the never-quench'd desire, That loaths the viand, and the goblet drains. Nor could exhausted floods the thirst subdue Till that dire Cause, which spreads the livid hue O'er the pale Form, with watry languor swell'd, From the polluted veins, by medicine, be expell'd.

Virtue, whate'er the dazzled Vulgar dream, Denies Phraätes, seated on thy throne, Immortal Cyrus, Joy's internal gleam, And thus she checks the Crowd's mistaken tone; “He, only he, who, calmly passing by, Not once shall turn the pure, unwishing eye On heaps of massy gold, that near him glare, My amaranthine wreath, my diadem shall wear.”

TO THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE.

HORACE, BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE THIRD, IMITATED.

OCTOBER 1796.

Conscious the mortal stamp is on thy breast, O, Erskine! still an equal mind maintain, That wild Ambition ne'er may goad thy rest, Nor Fortune's smile awake thy triumph vain,

Whether thro' toilsome tho' renowned years 'T is thine to trace the Law's perplexing maze, Or win the SACRED SEALS, whose awful cares To high decrees devote thy honor'd days.

Where silver'd Poplars with the stately Pines Mix their thick branches in the summer sky, And the cool stream, whose trembling surface shines, Laboriously oblique, is hurrying by;

There let thy duteous Train the banquet bring, In whose bright cups the liquid ruby flows, As Life's warm season, on expanded wing, Presents her too, too transitory rose;

While every Muse and Grace auspicious wait, As erst thy Handmaids, when, with brow serene, Gay thou didst rove where Buxton views elate A golden Palace deck her savage scene[1].

At frequent periods woo th' inspiring Band Before thy days their summer-course have run, While, with clos'd shears, the fatal Sisters stand, Nor aim to cut the brilliant thread they spun.

Precarious Tenant of that gay Retreat, Fann'd by pure gales on Hampstead's airy downs, Where filial troops for thee delighted wait, And their fair Mother's smile thy banquet crowns!

Precarious Tenant!—shortly thou may'st leave These, and propitious Fortune's golden hoard; Then spare not thou the stores, that shall receive, When set thy orb, a less illustrious Lord.

What can it then avail thee that thy pleas Charm'd every ear with Tully's periods bland? Or that the subject Passions they could seize, And with the thunder of the Greek command?

What can it then avail thee that thy fame Threw tenfold lustre on thy noble Line? Since neither birth, nor self-won glory, claim One hour's exemption from the sable shrine.

E'en now thy lot shakes in the Urn, whence Fate Throws her pale edicts in reverseless doom! Each issues in its turn, or soon, or late, And lo! the great Man's prize!—a silent Tomb!

TO BARINE.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE EIGHTH.

Barine, to thy always broken vows Were slightest punishment ordain'd; Hadst thou less charming been By one grey hair upon thy polish'd brows; If but a single tooth were stain'd, A nail discolour'd seen, Then might I nurse the hope that, faithful grown, The Future might, at length, the guilty Past atone.

But ah! no sooner on that perjur'd head, With pomp, the votive wreaths are bound, In mockery of truth, Than lovelier grace thy faithless beauties shed; Thou com'st, with new-born conquest crown'd, The care of all our Youth, Their public care;—and murmur'd praises rise Where'er the beams are shot of those resistless eyes.

Thy Mother's buried dust;—the midnight train, Of silent stars,—the rolling spheres, Each God, that list'ning bows, With thee it prospers, false-One! to profane. The Nymphs attend;—gay Venus hears, And all deride thy vows; And Cupid whets afresh his burning darts On the stone, moist with blood, that dropt from wounded hearts.

For thee our rising Youth to Manhood grow, Ordain'd thy powerful chains to wear; Nor do thy former Slaves From the gay roof of their false Mistress go, Tho' sworn no more to linger there; Triumphant Beauty braves The wise resolve;—and, ere they reach the door, Fixes the faltering step to thy magnetic floor.

Thee the sage Matron fears, intent to warn Her Striplings;—thee the Miser dreads, And, of thy power aware, Brides from the Fane with anxious sighs return, Lest the bright nets thy beauty spreads, Their plighted Lords ensnare, Ere fades the marriage torch; nay even now, While undispers'd the breath, that form'd the nuptial vow!

[1]TO TITUS VALGIUS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE NINTH.

Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower That drenches deep the furrow'd lea; Nor do continual tempests pour On the vex'd [2]Caspian's billowy sea; Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands Thro' all the passing months on pale [3]Armenia's Lands.

Fierce storms do not for ever bend The Mountain's vast and labouring oak, Nor from the ash its foliage rend, With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke; But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays Mournest thy vanish'd joys in Mystes' shorten'd days.

When [4]Vesper trembles in the west, Or flies before the orient sun, Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast.— Not thus did aged Nestor shun Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb, Where sunk his [5]filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom.

Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain, His Parents wept the Princely Boy; Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain, The blasted Flower of sinking Troy; Cease, then, thy fond complaints!—Augustus' fame, The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim!

So shall the listening World be told [6]Medus, and cold Niphates guide, With all their mighty Realms controul'd, Their late proud waves in narrower tide; That in scant space their steeds the [7]Scythians rein, Nor dare transgress the bounds our Victor Arms ordain.

TO LICINIUS MURENA[1].

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE TENTH.

Not always, dear Licinius, is it wise On the main Sea to ply the daring Oar; Nor is it safe, from dread of angry Skies, Closely to press on the insidious Shore. To no excess discerning Spirits lean, They feel the blessings of the golden mean; They will not grovel in the squalid cell, Nor seek in princely domes, with envied pomp, to dwell.

The pine, that lifts so high her stately boughs, Writhes in the storms, and bends beneath their might, Innoxious while the loudest tempest blows O'er trees, that boast a less-aspiring height. As the wild fury of the whirlwind pours, With direst ruin fall the loftiest towers; And 't is the mountain's summit that, oblique, From the dense, lurid clouds, the baleful lightnings strike.

A mind well disciplin'd, when Sorrow lours, Not sullenly excludes Hope's smiling rays; Nor, when soft Pleasure boasts of lasting powers, With boundless trust the Promiser surveys. It is the same dread Jove, who thro' the sky Hurls the loud storms, that darken as they fly; And whose benignant hand withdraws the gloom, And spreads rekindling light, in all its living bloom.

To-day the Soul perceives a weight of woe;— A brighter Morrow shall gay thoughts inspire. Does [2]Phœbus always bend the vengeful bow? Wakes he not often the harmonious lyre? Be thou, when Danger scowls in every wave, Watchful, collected, spirited, and brave; But in the sunny sky, the flattering gales, Contract, with steady hand, thy too expanded sails.

[1]TO MÆCENAS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE TWELFTH.

Mæcenas, I conjure thee cease To wake my harp's enamour'd strings To tones, that fright recumbent Peace, That Pleasure flies on rapid wings!

Slow conquest on Numantia's plain, Or Hannibal, that dauntless stood, Tho' thrice he saw Ausonia's main Redden with Carthaginian blood;

The Lapithæ's remorseless pride, Hylæus' wild inebriate hours; The Giants, who the Gods defied, And shook old Saturn's splendid towers;

These, dear Mæcenas, thou should'st paint, Each glory of thy Cæsar's reign, In eloquence, that scorns restraint, And sweeter than the Poet's strain;

Show captive Kings, who from the fight Drag at his wheels their galling chain, And the pale lip indignant bite With mutter'd vengeance, wild and vain.

Enraptur'd by Licinia's grace, My Muse would these high themes decline, Charm'd that the heart, the form, the face Of matchless Excellence is thine.

Ah, happy Friend! for whom an eye, Of splendid, and resistless fire, Lays all its pointed arrows by, For the mild gleams of soft desire!

With what gay spirit does she foil The Pedant's meditated hit! What happy archness in her smile! What pointed meaning in her wit!

Her cheek how pure a crimson warms, When with the Nymphs, in circling line, Bending she twines her snowy arms, And dances round Diana's shrine[2]!

Mæcenas, would'st not thou exchange The treasures gorgeous Persia pours, The wealth of Phrygia's fertile range, Or warm Arabia's spicy shores,

For one light ringlet of the hair, Which shades thy sweet Licinia's face, In that dear moment when the Fair, In flying from thy fond embrace,

Relenting turns her snowy neck, To meet thy kisses half their way, Or when her feign'd resentments check The ardors thy warm lips convey?

While in her eyes the languid light Betrays a yielding wish to prove, Amid her coy, yet playful flight, The pleasing force of fervent Love;

Or when, in gaily-frolic guise, She snatches her fair self the kiss, E'en at the instant she denies Her Lover the requested bliss.

TO POSTHUMUS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE FOURTEENTH.

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years Unpausing glide away; Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers, Their fleeting pace delay; Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend, Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.

Time goads us on, relentless Sire! On to the shadowy Shape, that stands Terrific on the funeral pyre, Waving the already kindled brands.— Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed, Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.

Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood, That skirts the verge of mortal light, He chains the Forms, on earth that stood Proud, and gigantic in their might; That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.

In vain the bleeding field we shun, In vain the loud and whelming wave; And, as autumnal winds come on, And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave, Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar, In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door.

The universal lot ordains We seek the black Cocytus' stream, That languid strays thro' dreary plains, Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam; Where the fell Brides their fruitless toil bemoan, And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone.

Thy tender wife, thy large domain, Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command; And of those various trees, that gain Their culture from thy fost'ring hand, The Cypress only shall await thy doom, Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely tomb!

TO LYCE,

ON HER REFUSING TO ADMIT HIS VISITS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TENTH.

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave, Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave, A barbarous Scythian's Bride, Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear Your Lover braves the winds severe, That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves, That labour o'er your proud alcoves, And hear the jarring door! Mark how the star, at eve that rose, Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows, While every leaf is hoar!

Gay Venus hates this cold disdain;— Cease then its rigors to maintain, That sprightly joys impede, Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind The freedom of my amorous mind, In rapid whirl recede!

Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire, Did he transmit his ardent fire That, like Ulysses' Queen, His beauteous Daughter still should prove Relentless to the sighs of Love, With frozen heart and mien?—

If nor blue cheek of shivering Swain, Nor yet his richest gifts obtain Your smile, and soft'ning brow; Nor if a faithless Husband's rage For a gay Syren of the stage, And broken nuptial vow;

If weak e'en Jealousy should prove To bend your heart to truer love, Yet pity these my pains, O Nymph, than oaks more hard, and fierce As snakes, that Afric's thickets pierce, Those terrors of the plains!

When heavy falls the pattering shower, And streaming spouts their torrents pour Upon my shrinking head, Not always shall wild Love command These limbs obsequiously to stand Beneath your dropping shed.

[1]TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BLANDUSIA.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE THIRTEENTH.

Nymph of the stream, whose source perpetual pours The living waters thro' the sparkling sand, Cups of bright wine, enwreath'd with summer flowers, For rich libation, round thy brink shall stand, When on the morrow, at thy Bard's decree, A young and spotless Kid is sacrificed to thee.

He, while his brows the primal antlers swell, Conscious of strength, and gay of heart prepares To meet the female, and the foe repel.— In vain he wishes, and in vain he dares! His ardent blood thy pebbly bed shall stain, Till each translucent wave flows crimson to the plain.

In vain shall Sirius shake his fiery hairs O'er thy pure flood, with waving poplars veil'd, For thou, when most his sultry influence glares, Refreshing shade, and cooling draughts shalt yield To all the flocks, that thro' the valley stray, And to the wearied steers, unyok'd at closing day.

Now dear to Fame, sweet Fountain, shalt thou flow, Since to my lyre those breathing shades I sing That crown the hollow rock's incumbent brow, From which thy soft, loquacious waters spring. To vie with streams Aonian be thy pride, As thro' Blandusia's Vale thy silver currents glide!

[1]TO TELEPHUS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE NINETEENTH.

The number of the vanish'd years That mark each famous Grecian reign, This night, my Telephus, appears Thy solemn pleasure to explain;

Or else assiduously to dwell, In conscious eloquence elate, On those who conquer'd, those who fell At sacred Troy's devoted gate.

But at what price the cask, so rare, Of luscious chian may be ours, Who shall the tepid baths prepare, And who shall strew the blooming flowers;

Beneath what roof we next salute, And when shall smile these gloomy skies, Thy wondrous eloquence is mute, Nor here may graver topics rise.—

Fill a bright bumper,—to the Moon! She's new!—auspicious be her birth! One to the Midnight!—'t is our noon Of jocund thought, and festal mirth!

And one to him, for whom the feasts This night are held with poignant [2]gust, Murena, whom his Rome invests With solemn honors, sacred trust!

Kind omens shall his voice convey, That may each rising care beguile; Propitious fled the Birds to-day? Will Love be ours, and Fortune smile?—

Arrange the cups of various size, The least containing bumpers three, And nine the rest.—Come, no disguise! Nor yet constraint, the choice is free!

All but the Bard's—the bowl of nine He is, in duty, bound to fill; The Muses number to decline Were treason at Aonia's hill.

For here the Sisters shall preside, So they allow us leave to laugh; Unzon'd the Graces round us glide, While we the liquid ruby quaff.

Yet they, in kind and guardian care, Dreading left wild inebriate glee With broils disturb our light career, Would stint us to their number, three.

Away ye Prudes!—the caution wise Becomes not this convivial hour, That every dull restraint defies, And laughs at all their frigid power.—

Thou say'st I rave;—and true thou say'st, Nor must thou check the flowing vein, For sprightly nonsense suits him best Whom grave reflection leads to pain.

Why mute the pipe's enlivening note? Why sleeps the charming lyre so long? O! let their strains around us float, Mix'd with the sweet and jocund song!

And lavish be the roses strewn! Ye flutes, ye lyres, exulting breathe! The festal Hour disdains to own The mournful note, the niggard wreath.

Old Lycon, with the venal Fair, Who courts yet hates his vile embrace, Our lively strains shall muttering hear, While Envy pales each sullen face:

Thou, with thy dark luxuriant hair, Thou, Telephus, as Hesper bright, Thou art accomplish'd Chloe's care, Whose glance is Love's delicious light.

Thy utmost wish the Fair-One crowns, And thy calm'd heart may well pursue The paths of knowledge;—Lyce frowns, And I, distasteful, shun their view.

From themes, that wake the powers of mind, The wounded Spirit sick'ning turns; To those be then this hour consign'd, That Mirth approves, tho' Wisdom spurns.

They shall disarm my Lyce's frown, The frolic jest, the lively strain, In flowing bowls, shall gaily drown The memory of her cold disdain.

TO PHIDYLE.

EXHORTING HER TO BE CONTENT WITH A FRUGAL SACRIFICE.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TWENTY-THIRD.

My Phidyle, retir'd in shady wild, If thou thy virgin hands shalt suppliant raise, If primal fruits are on thy altars pil'd, And incense pure thy duteous care conveys, To sooth the Lares, when the moon adorns, With their first modest light, her taper horns;

And if we pierce the throat of infant swine, A frugal victim, not the baleful breath Of the moist South shall blast our tender vine; Nor shall the lambs sink in untimely death When the unwholesome gales of Autumn blow, And shake the ripe fruit from the bending bough.

Let snowy Algidum's wide vallies feed, Beneath their stately holme, and spreading oak, Or the rich herbage of Albania's mead, The Steer, whose blood on lofty Shrines shall smoke! Red may it stain the Priest's uplifted knife, And glut the higher Powers with costly life!

The rosemary and myrtle's simple crown Thou on our household Gods, with decent care Art gently placing; and they will not frown; No stern demand is theirs, that we prepare Rich Flocks, and Herds, at Duty's solemn call, And, in the pomp of slaughter, bid them fall.

O! if an innocent hand approach the shrine, The little votive cake it humbly lays, The crackling salt, that makes the altar shine, Flung on the cheerful sacrificial blaze, To the mild Lares shall be grateful found As the proud Steer, with all his garlands crown'd.

TO MELPOMENE.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE THIRD.

Not he, O Muse! whom thy auspicious eyes In his primeval hour beheld, Shall victor in the Isthmian Contest rise; Nor o'er the long-resounding field Impetuous steeds his kindling wheels shall roll, Gay in th' Olympic Race, and foremost at the goal.

Nor in the Capitol, triumphant shown, The victor-laurel on his brow, For Cities storm'd, and vaunting Kings o'erthrown;— But Tibur's streams, that warbling flow, And groves of fragrant gloom, resound his strains, Whose sweet Æolian grace high celebration gains.

Now that his name, her noblest Bards among, Th' imperial City loudly hails, That proud distinction guards his rising song, When Envy's carping tongue assails; In sullen silence now she hears his praise, Nor sheds her canker'd spots upon his springing bays.

O Muse! who rulest each melodious lay That floats along the gilded shell, Who the mute tenant of the watry way Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel The softest note harmonious Sorrow brings, When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings.

Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guide The Stranger's eye, with proud desire That well he note the Man, whom Crowds decide Should boldly string the Latian lyre.— Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine, Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the glory THINE!

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE SEVENTH, IMITATED.

The snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute, Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide, And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot, And, in their daisied banks, the shrinking rivers glide.

Beauty, and Love, the blissful change have hail'd, While, in smooth mazes, o'er the painted mead, [1]Aglaia ventures, with her limbs unveil'd, Light thro' the dance each Sister-Grace to lead.

But O! reflect, that Sport, and Beauty, wing Th' unpausing Hour!—if Winter, cold and pale, Flies from the soft, and violet-mantled Spring, Summer, with sultry breath, absorbs the vernal gale.

Reflect, that Summer-glories pass away When mellow Autumn shakes her golden sheaves; While she, as Winter reassumes his sway, Speeds, with disorder'd vest, thro' rustling leaves.

But a short space the Moon illumes the skies; Yet she repairs her wanings, and again Silvers the vault of Night;—but no supplies, To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of Life obtain.

When our pale Form shall pensive vigils keep Where Collins, Akenside, and Shenstone roam, Or quiet with the Despot, Johnson, sleep, In that murk cell, the Body's final home,

To senseless dust, and to a fleeting shade Changes the life-warm Being!—Ah! who knows If the next dawn our eye-lids may pervade? Darken'd and seal'd, perchance, in long, and last repose!

When vivid Thought's unceasing force assails, It shakes, from Life's frail glass, the ebbing sands; Their course run out, ah! what to us avails Our fame's high note, tho' swelling it expands!

Reflect, that each convivial joy we share Amid encircling Friends, with grace benign, Escapes the grasp of our rapacious Heir;— Pile then the steaming board, and quaff the rosy wine!

Illustrious Hayley!—in that cruel hour, When o'er thee Fate the sable flag shall wave, Not thy keen wit, thy fancy's splendid power, Knowledge, or worth, shall snatch thee from the grave.

Not to his Mason's grief, from Death's dim plains Was honor'd Gray's departed form resign'd; No tears dissolve the cold Lethean chains, That, far from busy Life, the mortal semblance bind.

Then, for the bright creations of the brain, O! do not thou from health's gay leisure turn, Lest we, like tuneful Mason, sigh in vain, And grasp a timeless, tho' a laurel'd Urn!

TO LIGURIA.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE TENTH.

O thou! exulting in the charms, Nature, with lavish bounty, showers, When youth no more thy spirit warms, And stealing age thy pride alarms, For fleeting graces, and for waning powers;

When all the shining locks, that now Adown those ivory shoulders bound, With deaden'd colour shade thy brow, And fall as from th' autumnal bough Leaves, that rude winds have scatter'd on the ground;

And on that cheek the tints, that shame May's orient light and Summer's rose, Dim as yon taper's sullen flame, Shall, in a dusky red, proclaim That not one hue in wonted lustre glows;

When wrinkles o'er Liguria's face Their daily strengthening furrows lead; When faithful mirrors cease to place In her charm'd sight each blooming grace, And will no more her heart's proud triumph feed;

Then the chang'd Maid, with secret shame, Shall thus the past, and present chide; O! why, amid the loud acclaim, That gave my rising charms to Fame, Swell'd this coy bosom with disdainful pride?

Or why, since now the wish to yield Steals pensive thro' each melting vein, The ice dissolv'd, that scorn congeal'd, And every tender thought reveal'd, Why, vanish'd Beauty, com'st not thou again?

TO PHYLLIS.

INVITING HER TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTHDAY OF MÆCENAS.

BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE ELEVENTH.

Sweet Phyllis, leave thy quiet home, For lo! the ides of April come! Then hasten to my bower; A cask of rich Albanian wine, In nine years mellowness, is mine, To glad the festal hour.

My garden-herbs, in fragrance warm, Our various chaplets wait to form; My tender ivies grow, That, twining in thy amber hair, Add jocund spirit to thine air, And whiteness to thy brow.

My walls with silver vessels shine; Chaste vervain decks the modest shrine, That longs with crimson stains To see its foliage sprinkled o'er, When the devoted Lamb shall pour The treasure of his veins.

The household Girls, and menial Boy, From room to room assiduous fly, And busy hands extend; Our numerous fires are quivering bright, And, rolling from their pointed height, The dusky wreaths ascend[1].

Convivial rites, in mystic state, Thou, lovely Nymph, shalt celebrate, And give the day to mirth That this [2]Love-chosen month divides; Since honor'd rose its blooming ides By dear Mæcenas' birth.

O! not to me my natal star So sacred seems;—then, Nymph, prepare To grace its smiling dawn! A wealthier Maid, in pleasing chains, Illustrious [3]Telephus detains, From humble THEE withdrawn.

When Pride would daring hopes create, Of Phaeton recall the fate, Consum'd in his career! Let rash Bellerophon, who tried The fiery Pegasus to guide, Awake thy prudent fear!

Thus warn'd, thy better interest know, And cease those charming eyes to throw On Youths of high degree! Come then, of all my Loves the last, For, every other passion past, I only burn for thee!

Come, and with tuneful voice rehearse The measures of thy Poet's verse And charm the list'ning Throng! Believe me, Fairest, all our cares Will soften at the melting airs That deck the lyric song.

[1]ON THE PLEASURES OF RURAL LIFE.

BOOK THE FIFTH, EPODE THE SECOND.

I.

Thrice happy he, whose life restores The pleasures pure of early times; That ne'er, with anxious heart, explores The rugged heights Ambition climbs; Exempt from all the din, the toil, the care, That Cities for their busy Sons prepare; Fatigue, beneath the name of pleasure, Contentious law, usurious treasure, A tedious mean attendance on the Great, And emulation vain of all their pomp and state.

II.

Not his sound and balmy sleep The trumpet's martial warning breaks; Nor the loud billows of the angry Deep, When thro' the straining cords the Tempest shrieks; But the Morning's choral lay, Chanted wild from every spray. Swift at the summons flies the wilder'd dream, And up he springs alert, to meet the orient beam.

I.

The vine-clad hill he lightly scales, Where [2]tall the frequent poplars rise, From branch to branch assiduous trails The pendent clusters rich supplies; And cautious prunes the weak, the useless shoot, Engrafting healthier boughs, that promise fruit.— Then his arms serenely folding, And the smiling scene beholding, Marks, as the fertile valley winds away, His Flocks and lowing Herds, in ample numbers stray.

II.

Then to the warm bank below, Yellow with the morning-ray, And sees his shelter'd hives in even row, And hears their hum mix with the linnet's lay. Recent from the crystal springs Many a vessel pure he brings, In them, from all the waxen cells to drain The fragrant essence rich of flow'ry dale and plain.

I.

On the river's shady side White his gather'd flock appears, And, plung'd into the flashing tide, Their curl'd and snowy fleece he shears; But when, 'mid laughing fields diffusive spread, Majestic Autumn rears her placid head, Wreath'd with wheaten garlands yellow, Bearing various fruitage mellow, How gladly from the trees, that loaded stand, Shakes he the ripen'd pears, engrafted by his hand.

II.

Or his swelling grapes, that vie With the fleece of Tyrian stain! Such precious gifts his grateful cares supply To thee, Protector of his wide domain, Bounteous Sylvanus!—and to thee, The garden's watchful Deity; Beneath your favoring power he little cares Who wields the Lictor's rod, or who the fasces bears.

I.

In sultry noon's oppressive ray, Beneath the holme, of ample shade, His listless limbs he loves to lay On herbage, matted in the glade; Hears down the steeps the white rills dashing play, Till under the long grass they purl away; While, on wing of swift vibration, Murmuring range the honied nation, And the sweet stock-dove, the thick boughs among, His dewy slumber courts with her complaining song.

II.

Loud when wintry winds arise, And the feeble race appal, While o'er the earth, from dim and thicken'd skies, The flaky snows in white profusion fall, Then the sylvan chase he seeks;— Lo! furious from the thicket breaks The gnashing Boar!—Flies he, or stands at bay, Into the circling toils the staunch dogs drive the prey.

I.

When thro' the clear, and sparkling air, Fleet the pointed darts of frost, The filmy nets, now here, now there, For thievish birds, are lightly toss'd; Or, plac'd with silent heed, the wily snares, To lure the stranger-cranes, and timid hares. Rich viands they, whose pleasing flavor Crown his board, reward his labor. In those convivial hours the Heart forgets Its vain tumultuous hopes, and all its fond regrets.

II.

These the pleasures unalloy'd, That brighten oft the rural scene; But, if yet dearer joys supply the void, That, even there, will sometimes intervene When days are cold, and nights are long, And business goes a little wrong, Should an endearing faithful Wife be seen, With the warm light of love she chases gloomy spleen.

I.

As the Sabine Matron chaste, Active as th' Apulian Wife, See she assumes, with cheerful haste, The pleasing cares of wedded life; Draws the clean vestment o'er the little limbs, And, when the tearful eye of passion swims, With mild authority commanding, Repressing ill, and good expanding, Anxious she weeds the infant heart betimes, Ere ill propension thrive, and ripen into crimes.

II.

Dusky grows the winter-eve, In hurdled cotes the flocks are penn'd; Her vessels pure the frothing milk receive, As from swell'd udders its full streams descend. Bright the crackling faggots blaze, While she strains the eager gaze, O'er the dim vale to see her Husband come, With tir'd, yet willing step, to his warm, happy home.

I.

Her beating heart, and gladden'd eyes Perceive him ope the wicker gate; And swift her busy hand supplies The flowing bowl, the steaming plate; Her sparkling wine from their own vintage press'd; From their own stores her grateful viand dress'd; Less welcome far the proud collation, Cull'd with painful preparation, When earth, and air, and seas, have been explor'd For those expensive meats, that pile the Consul's board.

II.

Not the shell-fish, pampering food! Of Lucrine's azure lake the boast; Nor luscious product of the eastern flood, Driven by the stormy winds upon our coast; Nor costly birds, that hither rove Natives of Ionian grove, Can with more poignant zest his senses meet Than the love-kneaded cates of this unpurchas'd treat.

I.

[3]To his border's guardian Power When he spreads the vernal feast. Then bleeds the kid, in lucky hour, From the hungry wolf releas'd[4]; Then round the primal lamb's sweet flesh is seen The crisp salubrious herbage of the green; And, from loaded boughs descending, Unctuous olives richly blending;— These form the dainties of his festal day, When every heart expands, and every face is gay.

II.

Circled by a jocund train, With joy the new-shorn Flock he hears Come bleating homeward o'er the russet plain; While slow, with languid neck, the weary Steers Th' inverted ploughshare drag along, Mindless of the Shepherd's song; Then, round his smiling Household-Gods, surveys A numerous, menial Group, the proof of prosperous days.

I.

'T was thus, amidst his ill-got wealth, The Roman Usurer justly thought, Resolv'd to purchase peace and health, And live, at length, as Nature taught; No more with subtle avarice to lend, Oppressive foe beneath the name of friend! Now grasping views, for once, rejected, He on the [5]Ides his sums collected, But on the [6]Calends, lo! with anxious pain, On the same interest vast, he sends them forth again.

II.

Thus can lust of gold controul, Tho' the Heart urge a wiser choice, By force of habit lord it o'er the Soul, And stifle e'en Conviction's powerful voice. See, with sighs the Miser yield The promis'd joys of wood, and field; Against experienc'd disappointment, try With Gold to purchase that, which Gold can never buy!

TO NEAĒRA.

BOOK THE FIFTH, EPODE THE FIFTEENTH.

'T was night—the moon, upon her sapphire throne, High o'er the waning stars serenely shone, When thou, false Nymph, determin'd to prophane Them, and each Power that rules the earth, and main, As thy soft, snowy arms about me twin'd, Close as round oaks the clasping ivies wind, Swore, while the gaunt wolf shall infest the lea, And red Orion vex the wintry sea, While gales shall fan Apollo's floating locks, That shed their golden light o'er hills and rocks, So long thy breast should burn with purest fires, With mutual hopes, and with unchang'd desires.

Perjur'd Neaēra! thou shalt one day prove The worth, the vengeance of my slighted love; For O! if Manhood steels, if Honor warms, Horace shall fly, shall scorn thy faithless charms; Seek some bright Maid, whose soul for him shall glow, Nor art, nor pride, nor wandering wishes know.

Then should'st thou languish, sigh, and weep once more, And with new vows his injur'd heart implore, Nor sighs, nor vows, nor tears shall he regard Cold as the snow and as the marble hard.

And THOU, triumphant Youth, so gay, so vain, Proud of my fate, exulting in my pain, Tho' on thy hills the plenteous Herd should feed, And rich Pactolus roll along thy mead; For thee tho' Science ope the varied store, And Beauty on thy form its graces pour, Ere long shalt thou, while wrongs like these degrade, Droop with my woes, and with my rage upbraid; See on a Rival's brow thy garlands worn, And, with her falsehood, bear my jocund scorn.

TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE,

ON THEIR RENEWING THE CIVIL WARS.

BOOK THE FIFTH, ODE THE SEVENTH.

Where do ye rush, ye impious Trains, Why gleams afar the late-sheath'd sword? Is it believ'd that Roman veins Their crimson tides have sparely pour'd? Is not our scorn of safety, health, and ease, Shewn by devasted climes, and blood-stain'd seas?

Those scowling brows, those lifted spears, Bend they against the threat'ning towers Proud Carthage emulously rears? Or Britain's still unconquer'd shores? That her fierce Sons, yet free from hostile sway, May pass in chains along our Sacred Way?

No!—but that warring Parthia's curse May quickly blast these far-famed Walls; Accomplish'd when, with direful force, By her own strength the City falls; When Foes no more her might resistless feel, But Roman bosoms bleed by Roman steel.

O! worse than Wolves, or Lions fierce, Who ne'er, like you, assault their kind! By what wild phrenzy would ye pierce Each other's breast in fury blind?— Silent, and pale ye stand, with conscious sighs, Your struck soul louring in your down-cast eyes!

The blood our rising walls that stain'd, Shed by the [1]ruthless Fratricide, High Heaven's avenging power ordain'd Should spread the rage of discord wide, Bid kindred Blood in dread profusion flow Thro' darken'd years of expiatory woe.

FINIS.