BOOK I. ODE XXII.
Reading edition
1 The man, my friend, whose conscious heart With virtue's sacred ardour glows, Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart, Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:
2 Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads, Or horrid Afric's faithless sands; Or where the famed Hydaspes spreads His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
3 For while, by Chlöe's image charm'd, Too far in Sabine woods I stray'd; Me singing, careless and unarm'd, A grisly wolf surprised, and fled.
4 No savage more portentous stain'd Apulia's spacious wilds with gore; None fiercer Juba's thirsty land, Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.
5 Place me where no soft summer gale Among the quivering branches sighs; Where clouds condensed for ever veil With horrid gloom the frowning skies:
6 Place me beneath the burning line, A clime denied to human race; I'll sing of Chlöe's charms divine, Her heavenly voice, and beauteous face.
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