Humanistica Digitalia

Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors, The shield at once and glory of my life! There are who joy them in the Olympic strife And love the dust they gather in the course;

The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize, Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind; This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,

That, if his granary has stored away Of Libya 's thousand floors the yield entire; The man who digs his field as did his sire, With honest pride, no Attalus may sway

By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas, The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark. The winds that make Icarian billows dark The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease

Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft. There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught, Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,

Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward, Now by some gentle river's sacred spring; Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring, And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.

See, patient waiting in the clear keen air, The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride, Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed, Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.

To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods, Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath

Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre. O, write my name among that minstrel choir, And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!

Enough of snow and hail at last The sire has sent in vengeance down: His bolts, at his own temple cast, Appall'd the town,

Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha 's time Return, with all its monstrous sights, When Proteus led his flocks to climb The flatten'd heights,

When fish were in the elm-tops caught, Where once the stock-dove wont to bide, And does were floating, all distraught, Adown the tide.

Old Tiber , hurl'd in tumult back From mingling with the Etruscan main, Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrack And Vesta's fane.

Roused by his Ilia 's plaintive woes, He vows revenge for guiltless blood, And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows, Uxorious flood.

Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel That better Persian lives had spilt, To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel Their parents' guilt.

What god shall Rome invoke to stay Her fall? Can suppliance overbear The ear of Vesta, turn'd away From chant and prayer?

Who comes, commission'd to atone For crime like ours? at length appear, A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown, Apollo seer!

Or Venus, laughter-loving dame, Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly; Or thou, if slighted sons may claim A parent's eye,

O weary with thy long, long game, Who lov'st fierce shouts and helmets bright, And Moorish warrior's glance of flame Or e'er he smite!

Or Maia 's son, if now awhile In youthful guise we see thee here, Caesar's avenger—such the style Thou deign'st to bear;

Late be thy journey home, and long Thy sojourn with Rome 's family; Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong Lend wings to fly.

Here take our homage, Chief and Sire; Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow, And bid the prancing Mede retire, Our Caesar thou!

Thus may Cyprus ' heavenly queen, Thus Helen's brethren, stars of brightest sheen, Guide thee! May the sire of wind Each truant gale, save only Zephyr, bind!

So do thou, fair ship, that ow'st Virgil, thy precious freight, to Attic coast, Safe restore thy loan and whole, And save from death the partner of my soul!

Oak and brass of triple fold Encompass'd sure that heart, which first made bold To the raging sea to trust A fragile bark, nor fear'd the Afric gust

With its Northern mates at strife, Nor Hyads' frown, nor South-wind fury-rife, Mightiest power that Hadria knows, Wills he the waves to madden or compose.

What had Death in store to awe Those eyes, that huge sea-beasts unmelting saw, Saw the swelling of the surge, And high Ceraunian cliffs, the seaman's scourge?

Heaven's high providence in vain Has sever'd countries with the estranging main, If our vessels ne'ertheless With reckless plunge that sacred bar transgress.

Daring all, their goal to win, Men tread forbidden ground, and rush on sin: Daring all, Prometheus play'd His wily game, and fire to man convey'd;

Soon as fire was stolen away, Pale Fever's stranger host and wan Decay Swept o'er earth's polluted face, And slow Fate quicken'd Death's once halting pace.

Daedalus the void air tried On wings, to humankind by Heaven denied; Acheron 's bar gave way with ease Before the arm of labouring Hercules.

Nought is there for man too high; Our impious folly e'en would climb the sky, Braves the dweller on the steep, Nor lets the bolts of heavenly vengeance sleep.

The touch of Zephyr and of Spring has loosen'd Winter's thrall; The well-dried keels are wheel'd again to sea: The ploughman cares not for his fire, nor cattle for their stall, And frost no more is whitening all the lea.

Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead; The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit, With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan , fiery red, Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna 's pit.

'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green, Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze; Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen, Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.

Pale Death, impartial, walks his round: he knocks at cottage-gate And palace-portal. Sestius, child of bliss! How should a mortal's hopes be long, when short his being's date? Lo here! the fabulous ghosts, the dark abyss,

The void of the Plutonian hall, where soon as e'er you go, No more for you shall leap the auspicious die To seat you on the throne of wine; no more your breast shall glow For Lycidas, the star of every eye.

What slender youth, besprinkled with perfume, Courts you on roses in some grotto's shade? Fair Pyrrha , say, for whom Your yellow hair you braid,

So trim, so simple! Ah! how oft shall he Lament that faith can fail, that gods can change, Viewing the rough black sea With eyes to tempests strange,

Who now is basking in your golden smile, And dreams of you still fancy-free, still kind, Poor fool, nor knows the guile Of the deceitful wind!

Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloud Untried! For me, they show in yonder fane My dripping garments, vow'd To Him who curbs the main.

Not I, but Varius:—he, of Homer's brood A tuneful swan, shall bear you on his wing, Your tale of trophies, won by field or flood, Mighty alike to sing.

Not mine such themes, Agrippa; no, nor mine To chant the Wrath that fill'd Pelides' breast, Nor dark Ulysses' wanderings o'er the brine, Nor Pelops' house unblest.

Vast were the task, I feeble; inborn shame, And she, who makes the peaceful lyre submit, Forbid me to impair great Caesar's fame And yours by my weak wit.

But who may fitly sing of Mars array'd In adamant mail, or Merion, black with dust Of Troy , or Tydeus' son by Pallas ' aid Strong against gods to thrust?

Feasts are my theme, my warriors maidens fair, Who with pared nails encounter youths in fight; Be Fancy free or caught in Cupid's snare, Her temper still is light.

Let others Rhodes or Mytilene sing, Or Ephesus , or Corinth , set between Two seas, or Thebes , or Delphi , for its king Each famous, or Thessalian Tempe green;

There are who make chaste Pallas' virgin tower The daily burden of unending song, And search for wreaths the olive's rifled bower: The praise of Juno sounds from many a tongue,

Telling of Argos ' steeds, Mycenae 's gold. For me stern Sparta forges no such spell, No, nor Larissa's plain of richest mould, As bright Albunea echoing from her cell.

O headlong Anio! O Tiburnian groves, And orchards saturate with shifting streams! Look how the clear fresh south from heaven removes The tempest, nor with rain perpetual teems!

You too be wise, my Plancus: life's worst cloud Will melt in air, by mellow wine allay'd, Dwell you in camps, with glittering banners proud, Or 'neath your Tibur 's canopy of shade.

When Teucer fled before his father's frown From Salamis , they say his temples deep He dipp'd in wine, then wreath'd with poplar crown, And bade his comrades lay their grief to sleep:

“Where Fortune bears us, than my sire more kind, There let us go, my own, my gallant crew. 'Tis Teucer leads, 'tis Teucer breathes the wind; No more despair; Apollo's word is true.

Another Salamis in kindlier air Shall yet arise. Hearts, that have borne with me Worse buffets! drown today in wine your care; To-morrow we recross the wide, wide sea!”

Lydia , by all above, Why bear so hard on Sybaris , to ruin him with love? What change has made him shun The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?

Why does he never sit On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bit His Gallic courser tame? Why dreads he yellow Tiber , as 'twould sully that fair frame? Like poison loathes the oil,

His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil, He who erewhile was known For quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown? Why skulks he, as they say

Did Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion 's fatal day, For fear the manly dress Should fling him into danger's arms, amid the Lycian press?

See, how it stands, one pile of snow, Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.

Heap high the logs, and melt the cold, Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask, That mellower vintage, four-year-old, From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.

The future trust with Jove; when he Has still'd the warring tempests' roar On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree And aged ash are rock'd no more.

O, ask not what the morn will bring, But count as gain each day that chance May give you; sport in life's young spring, Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,

While years are green, while sullen eld Is distant. Now the walk, the game, The whisper'd talk at sunset held, Each in its hour, prefer their claim.

Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm The hiding-place of beauty tells, The token, ravish'd from the arm Or finger, that but ill rebels.

Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue, O Mercury, whose wit could tame Man's savage youth by power of song And plastic game!

Thee sing I, herald of the sky, Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet, Hiding whate'er might please thine eye In frolic cheat.

See, threatening thee, poor guileless child, Apollo claims, in angry tone, His cattle;—all at once he smiled, His quiver gone.

Strong in thy guidance, Hector's sire Escaped the Atridae, pass'd between Thessalian tents and warders' fire, Of all unseen,

Thou lay'st unspotted souls to rest; Thy golden rod pale spectres know; Blest power! by all thy brethren blest, Above, below!

Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years, Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers. Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past, Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;

This , that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore. Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more? In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away. Seize the present; trust tomorrow e'en as little as you may.

What man, what hero, Clio sweet, On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim? What god shall echo's voice repeat In mocking game

To Helicon 's sequester'd shade, Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill, Where once the hurrying woods obey'd The minstrel's will,

Who, by his mother's gift of song, Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze, And led with blandishment along The listening trees?

Whom praise we first? the sire on high, Who gods and men unerring guides, Who rules the sea, the earth, the sky, Their times and tides.

No mightier birth may he beget; No like, no second has he known; Yet nearest to her sire's is set Minerva 's throne.

Nor yet shall Bacchus pass unsaid, Bold warrior, nor the virgin foe Of savage beasts, nor Phoebus, dread With deadly bow.

Alcides too shall be my theme, And Leda's twins, for horses he, He famed for boxing; soon as gleam Their stars at sea,

The lash'd spray trickles from the steep, The wind sinks down, the storm-cloud flies, The threatening billow on the deep Obedient lies.

Shall now Quirinus take his turn, Or quiet Numa , or the state Proud Tarquin held, or Cato stern, By death made great?

Ay, Regulus and the Scaurian name, And Paullus, who at Cannae gave His glorious soul, fair record claim, For all were brave.

Thee, Furius, and Fabricius, thee, Rough Curius too, with untrimm'd beard, Your sires' transmitted poverty To conquest rear'd.

Marcellus ' fame, its up-growth hid, Springs like a tree; great Julius ' light Shines, like the radiant moon amid The lamps of night.

Dread Sire and Guardian of man's race, To thee, O Jove, the Fates assign Our Caesar's charge; his power and place Be next to thine.

Whether the Parthian, threatening Rome , His eagles scatter to the wind. Or follow to their eastern home Cathay and Ind,

Thy second let him rule below Thy car shall shake the realms above; Thy vengeful bolts shall overthrow Each guilty grove.

Telephus—you praise him still, His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck; Ah! and all the while I thrill With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check

See, my colour comes and goes, My poor heart flutters, Lydia , and the dew, Down my cheek soft stealing, shows What lingering torments rack me through and through.

Oh, 'tis agony te see Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray, Or those ruby lips, where he Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!

Never, never look to find A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm Sweetest lips, which Venus kind Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.

Happy, happy; happy they Whose living love, untroubled by all strife, Binds them till the last sad day, Nor parts asunder but with parting life!

O luckless bark! new waves will force you back To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours! E'en now, a helpless wrack, You drift, despoil'd of oars;

The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound; Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain, Till lash'd with cables round, A more imperious main.

Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn; No gods are left to pray to in fresh need. A pine of Pontus born Of noble forest breed,

You boast your name and lineage—madly blind Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear? Beware! or else the wind Makes you its mock and jeer.

Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine, And still I love you, still am ill at ease. O, shun the sea, where shine The thick-sown Cyclades !

When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deep His Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark, Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep, That all to Fate might hark,

Speaking through him:—“Home in ill hour you take A prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold, Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to break And Priam's kingdom old.

Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm! What tolls are waiting, man and horse to tire! See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm, Her chariot and her ire.

Vainly shall you; in Venus' favour strong, Your tresses comb, and for your dames divide On peaceful lyre the several parts of song; Vainly in chamber hide

From spears and Gnossian arrows, barb'd with fate, And battle's din, and Ajax in the chase Unconquer'd; those adulterous locks, though late, Shall gory dust deface.

Hark! 'tis the death-cry of your race! look back! Ulysses comes, and Pylian Nestor grey; See! Salaminian Teucer on your track, And Sthenelus, in the fray

Versed, or with whip and rein, should need require, No laggard. Merion too your eyes shall know From far. Tydides, fiercer than his sire, Pursues you, all aglow;

Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright, Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade, And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despite Boasts to your leman made.

What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postpone The day of doom to Troy and Troy 's proud dames, Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown, Wrapp'd in Achaenan flames.”

O lovelier than the lovely dame That bore you, sentence as you please Those scurril verses, be it flame Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.

Not Cybele, nor he that haunts Rich Pytho , worse the brain confounds, Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds

Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown, Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter In hideous ruin crashing down.

Prometheus, forced, they say, to add To his prime clay some favourite part From every kind, took lion mad, And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.

'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low; 'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls On cities, and invites the foe To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.

Then calm your spirit; I can tell How once, when youth in all my veins Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell On friend and foe in ribald strains.

Come, let me change my sour for sweet, And smile complacent as before: Hear me my palinode repeat, And give me back your heart once more.

The pleasures of Lucretilis Tempt Faunus from his Grecian seat; He keeps my little goats in bliss Apart from wind, and rain, and heat.

In safety rambling o'er the sward For arbutes and for thyme they peer, The ladies of the unfragrant lord, Nor vipers, green with venom, fear,

Nor savage wolves, of Mars' own breed, My Tyndaris , while Ustica 's dell Is vocal with the silvan reed, And music thrills the limestone fell.

Heaven is my guardian; heaven approves A blameless life, by song made sweet; Come hither, and the fields and groves Their horn shall empty at your feet.

Here, shelter'd by a friendiy tree, In Teian measures you shall sing Bright Circe and Penelope, Love-smitten both by one sharp sting.

Here shall you quaff beneath the shade Sweet Lesbian draughts that injure none, Nor fear lest Mars the realm invade Of Semele's Thyonian son,

Lest Cyrus on a foe too weak Lay the rude hand of wild excess, His passion on your chaplet wreak, Or spoil your undeserving dress.

Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine, In the rich domain of Tibur , by the walls of Catilus; There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design, And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus.

Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head, Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright? But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read, How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.

And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good and ill, How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid! Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will, Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!

Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn; In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperately blind, And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its emptyheaded scorn, And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.

Cupid's mother, cruel dame, And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold, Bid me kindle into flame This heart, by waning passion now left cold.

O, the charms of Glycera, That hue, more dazzling than the Parian stone! O, that sweet tormenting play, That too fair face, that blinds when look'd upon!

Venus comes in all her might, Quits Cyprus for my heart, nor lets me tell Of the Parthian, bold in flight, Nor Scythian hordes, nor aught that breaks her spell.

Heap the grassy altar up, Bring vervain, boys, and sacred frankincense; Fill the sacrificial cup; A victim's blood will soothe her vehemence.

Not large my cups, nor rich my cheer, This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd, That day the applauding theatre Your welcome peal'd,

Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fain That your paternal river's banks, And Vatican , in sportive strain, Should echo thanks.

For you Calenian grapes are press'd, And Caecuban; these cups of mine Falernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd, Nor Formian vine.

Of Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell; Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing; And bright Latona , well Beloved of Heaven's high king.

Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves, Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen, In Erymanthian groves Dark-leaved, or Cragus green.

Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud, And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair, His golden quiver proud And brother's lyre to bear.

His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and War To Persia and to Britain 's coast, away From Rome and Caesar far, If you have zeal to pray.

No need of Moorish archer's craft To guard the pure and stainless liver; He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaft To store his quiver,

Whether he traverse Libyan shoals, Or Caucasus , forlorn and horrent, Or lands where far Hydaspes rolls His fabled torrent.

A wolf, while roaming trouble-free In Sabine wood, as fancy led me, Unarm'd I sang my Lalage, Beheld, and fled me.

Dire monster! in her broad oak woods Fierce Daunia fosters none such other, Nor Juba 's land, of lion broods The thirsty mother.

Place me where on the ice-bound plain No tree is cheer'd by summer breezes, Where Jove descends in sleety rain Or sullen freezes;

Place me where none can live for heat, 'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me, That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet, Shall still enchant me.

You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hills A young fawn runs her timorous dam to find, Whom empty terror thrills Of woods and whispering wind.

Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heard Through the light leaves, or lizards in the brake The rustling thorns have stirr'd, Her heart, her knees, they quake.

Yet I, who chase you, no grim lion am, No tiger fell, to crush you in my gripe: Come, learn to leave your dam. For lover's kisses ripe.

Why blush to let our tears unmeasured fall For one so dear? Begin the mournful stave, Melpomene, to whom the sire of all Sweet voice with music gave.

And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death, Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dear Of Justice! naked Truth! unsullied Faith! When will ye find his peer?

By many a good man wept, Quintilius dies; By none than you, my Virgil, trulier wept: Devout in vain, you chide the faithless skies, Asking your loan ill-kept.

No, though more suasive than the bard of Thrace You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear, Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale face Whom once with wand severe

Mercury has folded with the sons of night, Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal. Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more light What sorrow may not heal.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

The Muses love me: fear and grief, The winds may blow them to the sea; Who quail before the wintry chief Of Scythia 's realm, is nought to me.

What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers, I care not, I. O, nymph divine Of virgin springs, with sunniest flowers A chaplet for my Lamia twine,

Pimplea sweet! my praise were vain Without thee. String this maiden lyre, Attune for him the Lesbian strain, O goddess, with thy sister quire!

What, fight with cups that should give joy? 'Tis barbarous; leave such savage ways To Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy, Is blushing at your bloody frays.

The Median sabre! lights and wine! Was stranger contrast ever seen? Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine, And still upon your elbows lean.

Well, shall I take a toper's part Of fierce Falernian? let our guest, Megilla's brother, say what dart Gave the death-wound that makes him blest.

He hesitates? no other hire Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er The goddess tames you, no base fire She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair

Allures you still. Come, tell me truth, And trust my honour—That the name? That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth! O, you deserved a better flame!

What wizard, what Thessalian spell, What god can save you, hamper'd thus? To cope with this Chimaera fell Would task another Pegasus.

The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand, Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas! A little dust on Matine shore has spann'd That soaring spirit; vain it was to pass

The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest O'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die. Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest, And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,

And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove; And Panthus' son has yielded up his breath Once more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to prove His prowess under Troy , and bade grim death

O'er skin and nerves alone exert its power, Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read. Yes, all “await the inevitable hour;” The downward journey all one day must tread.

Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes; Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine; Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies; Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.

Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast, Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave. But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to cast A handful on my head, that owns no grave.

So, though the eastern tempests loudly threat Hesperia's main, may green Venusia 's crown Be stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yet Stream from Tarentum 's guard, great Neptune, down,

And gracious Jove, into your open lap! What! shrink you not from crime whose punishment Falls on your innocent children? it may hap Imperious Fate will make yourself repent.

My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong; No expiations shall the curse unbind. Great though your haste, I would not task you long; Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.

Your heart on Arab wealth is set, Good Iccius: you would try your steel On Saba 's kings, unconquerd yet, And make the Mede your fetters feel.

Come, tell me what barbarian fair Will serve you now, her bridegroom slain? What page from court with essenced hair Will tender you the bowl you drain,

Well skill'd to bend the Serian bow His father carried? Who shall say That rivers may not uphill flow, And Tiber 's self return one day,

If you would change Panaetius' works, That costly purchase, and the clan Of Socrates, for shields and dirks, Whom once we thought a saner man?

Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come, Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn, Haste, where for thee in Glycera's home Sweet odours burn.

Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm, Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free, And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm, And Mercury.

What blessing shall the bard entreat The god he hallows, as he pours The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat That load Sardinian threshing floors;

Not Indian gold or ivory—no, Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray, Nor fields that Liris, still and slow, Is eating, unperceived, away.

Let those whose fate allows them train Calenum's vine; let trader bold From golden cups rich liquor drain For wares of Syria bought and sold,

Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a year He comes and goes across the brine Undamaged. I in plenty here On endives, mallows, succory dine.

O grant me, Phoebus, calm content, Strength unimpaird, a mind entire, Old age without dishonour spent, Nor unbefriended by the lyre!

They call;—if aught in shady dell We twain have warbled, to remain Long months or years, now breathe, my shell, A Roman strain,

Thou, strung by Lesbos ' minstrel hand, The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel, Or haply mooring to the strand His batter'd keel,

Of Bacchus and the Muses sung, And Cupid, still at Venus' side, And Lycus, beautiful and young, Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.

O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear, Delight of Jove's high festival, Blest balm in trouble, hail and hear Whene'er I call!

What, Albius! why this passionate despair For cruel Glycera? why melt your voice In dolorous strains, because the perjured fair Has made a younger choice?

See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glows For Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his head To Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roes Apulian wolves shall wed,

Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike: So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yoke She loves to couple forms and minds unlike, All for a heartless joke.

For me sweet Love had forged a milder spell; But Myrtale still kept me her fond slave, More stormy she than the tempestuous swell That crests Calabria 's wave.

My prayers were scant, my offerings few, While witless wisdom fool'd my mind; But now I trim my sails anew, And trace the course I left behind.

For lo! the sire of heaven on high, By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven, Today through an unclouded sky His thundering steeds and car has driven.

E'en now dull earth and wandering floods, And Atlas' limitary range, And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes Are reeling. He can lowliest change

And loftiest; bring the mighty down And lift the weak; with whirring flight Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown, And decks therewith some meaner wight.

Lady of Antium , grave and stern! O Goddess, who canst lift the low To high estate, and sudden turn A triumph to a funeral show!

Thee the poor hind that tills the soil Implores; their queen they own in thee, Who in Bithynian vessel toil Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea.

Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes, Peoples and towns, and Rome , their head, And mothers of barbarian lords, And tyrants in their purple dread,

Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire To arms, to arms! the loiterers call, And thrones be tumbled in the mire.

Necessity precedes thee still With hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp: Her hand the nails and wedges fill, The molten lead and stubborn clamp.

Hope, precious Truth in garb of white, Attend thee still, nor quit thy side When with changed robes thou tak'st thy flight In anger from the homes of pride.

Then the false herd, the faithless fair, Start backward; when the wine runs dry. The jocund guests, too light to bear An equal yoke, asunder fly.

O shield our Caesar as he goes To furthest Britain , and his band, Rome 's harvest! Send on Eastern foes Their fear, and on the Red Sea strand!

O wounds that scarce have ceased to run! O brother's blood! O iron time! What horror have we left undone? Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?

What shrine has rapine held in awe? What altar spared? O haste and beat The blunted steel we yet may draw On Arab and on Massagete!

Bid the lyre and cittern play; Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore; Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida, And brings him safe from far Hispania 's shore.

Now, returning, he bestows On each dear comrade all the love he can; But to Lamia most he owes, By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.

Note we in our calendar This festal day with whitest mark from Crete : Let it flow, the old wine-jar, And ply to Salian time your restless feet.

Damalis tosses off her wine, But Bassus sure must prove her match tonight. Give us roses all to twine, And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.

Every melting eye will rest On Damalis' lovely face; but none may part Damalis from our new-found guest; She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.

Now drink we deep, now featly tread A measure; now before each shrine With Salian feasts the table spread; The time invites us, comrades mine.

'Twas shame to broach, before today, The Caecuban, while Egypt 's dame Threaten'd our power in dust to lay And wrap the Capitol in flame,

Girt with her foul emasculate throng, By Fortune's sweet new wine befool'd, In hope's ungovern'd weakness strong To hope for all; but soon she cool'd,

To see one ship from burning 'scape; Great Caesar taught her dizzy brain, Made mad by Mareotic grape, To feel the sobering truth of pain,

And gave her chase from Italy , As after doves fierce falcons speed, As hunters 'neath Haemonia's sky Chase the tired hare, so might he lead

The fiend enchain'd; she sought to die More nobly, nor with woman's dread Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously In her fleet ships to covert fled.

Amid her ruin'd halls she stood Unblench'd, and fearless to the end Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood Might with the cold black venom blend,

Death's purpose flushing in her face; Nor to our ships the glory gave, That she, no vulgar dame, should grace A triumph, crownless, and a slave.

No Persian cumber, boy, for me; I hate your garlands linden-plaited; Leave winter's rose where on the tree It hangs belated.

Wreath me plain myrtle; never think Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting, Yours as you wait, mine as I drink In vine-bower sitting.

The broils that from Metellus date, The secret springs, the dark intrigues, The freaks of Fortune, and the great Confederate in disastrous leagues,

And arms with uncleansed slaughter red, A work of danger and distrust, You treat, as one on fire should tread Scarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.

Let Tragedy's stern muse be mute Awhile; and when your order'd page Has told Rome 's tale, that buskin'd foot Again shall mount the Attic stage,

Pollio, the pale defendant's shield, In deep debate the senate's stay, The hero of Dalmatic field By Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.

E'en now with trumpet's threatening blare You thrill our ears; the clarion brays; The lightnings of the armour scare The steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.

Methinks I hear of leaders proud With no uncomely dust distain'd, And all the world by conquest bow'd, And only Cato's soul unchain'd.

Yes, Juno and the powers on high That left their Afric to its doom, Have led the victors' progeny As victims to Jugurtha's tomb.

What field, by Latian blood-drops fed, Proclaims not the unnatural deeds It buries, and the earthquake dread Whose distant thunder shook the Medes?

What gulf, what river has not seen Those sights of sorrow? nay, what sea Has Daunian carnage yet left green? What coast from Roman blood is free?

But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your play Another Cean dirge to sing; With me to Venus' bower away, And there attune a lighter string.

The silver, Sallust, shows not fair While buried in the greedy mine: You love it not till moderate wear Have given it shine.

Honour to Proculeius! he To brethren play'd a father's part; Fame shall embalm through years to be That noble heart.

Who curbs a greedy soul may boast More power than if his broad-based throne Bridged Libya 's sea, and either coast Were all his own.

Indulgence bids the dropsy grow; Who fain would quench the palate's flame Must rescue from the watery foe The pale weak frame.

Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate, May count for blest with vulgar herds, But not with Virtue; soon or late From lying words

She weans men's lips; for him she keeps The crown, the purple, and the bays, Who dares to look on treasure-heaps With unblench'd gaze.

An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud, Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter sky Let pleasure make your heart too proud, O Dellius, Dellius! sure te die,

Whether in gloom you spend each year, Or through long holydays at ease In grassy nook your spirit cheer With old Falernian vintages,

Where poplar pale, and pine-tree high Their hospitable shadows spread Entwined, and panting waters try To hurry down their zigzag bed.

Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom, Too brief, alas! to that sweet place; While life, and fortune, and the loom Of the Three Sisters yield you grace.

Soon must you leave the woods you buy, Your villa, wash'd by Tiber 's flow, Leave,—and your treasures, heap'd so high, Your reckless heir will level low.

Whether from Argos ' founder born In wealth you lived beneath the sun, Or nursed in beggary and scorn, You fall to Death, who pities none.

One way all travel; the dark urn Shakes each man's lot, that soon or late Will force him, hopeless of return, On board the exile-ship of Fate.

Why, Xanthias, blush to own you love Your slave? Briseis, long ago, A captive, could Achilles move With breast of snow.

Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord, Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon; Atrides, in his pride, adored The maid he won,

When Troy to Thessaly gave way, And Hector's all too quick decease Made Pergamus an easier prey To wearied Greece .

What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate, You graft yourself on regal stem? Oh yes! be sure her sires were great; She weeps for them.

Believe me, from no rascal scum Your charmer sprang; so true a flame, Such hate of greed, could never come From vulgar dame.

With honest fervour I commend Those lips, those eyes; you need not fear A rival, hurrying on to end His fortieth year.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

No translation in Conington (1882) for this passage.

Septimius, who with me would brave Far Gades , and Cantabrian land Untamed by Rome , and Moorish wave That whirls the sand;

Fair Tibur , town of Argive kings, There would I end my days serene, At rest from seas and travellings, And service seen.

Should angry Fate those wishes foil, Then let me seek Galesus, sweet To skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil, The Spartan's seat.

O, what can match the green recess, Whose honey not to Hybla yields, Whose olives vie with those that bless Venafrum 's fields?

Long springs, mild winters glad that spot By Jove's good grace, and Aulon , dear To fruitful Bacchus, envies not Falernian cheer.

That spot, those happy heights desire Our sojourn; there, when life shall end, Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre, Your bard and friend.

O, oft with me in troublous time Involved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece , Who gives you back to your own clime And your own gods, a man of peace,

Pompey, the earliest friend I knew, With whom I oft cut short the hours With wine, my hair bright bathed in dew Of Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?

With you I shared Philippi 's rout, Unseemly parted from my shield, When Valour fell, and warriors stout Were tumbled on the inglorious field:

But I was saved by Mercury, Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore, While you to that tempestuous sea Were swept by battle's tide once more.

Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe; Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent, Beneath my laurel; nor be slow To drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.

Lethe's true draught is Massic wine; Fill high the goblet; pour out free Rich streams of unguent. Who will twine The hasty wreath from myrtle-tree

Or parsley? Whom will Venus seat Chairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane? Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweet To fool, when friends come home again!

Had chastisement for perjured truth, Barine, mark'd you with a curse— Did one wry nail, or one black tooth, But make you worse—

I'd trust you; but, when plighted lies Have pledged you deepest, lovelier far You sparkle forth, of all young eyes The ruling star.

'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones, And night's still signs, and all the sky, And gods, that on their glorious thrones Chill Death defy.

Ay, Venus smiles; the pure nymphs smile, And Cupid, tyrant-lord of hearts, Sharpening on bloody stone the while His fiery darts.

New captives fill the nets you weave; New slaves are bred; and those before, Though oft they threaten, never leave Your godless door.

The mother dreads you for her son, The thrifty sire, the new-wed bride, Lest, lured by you, her precious one Should leave her side.

The rain, it rains not every day On the soak'd meads; the Caspian main Not always feels the unequal sway Of storms, nor on Armenia 's plain,

Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snow Through all the year; nor northwinds keen Upon Garganian oakwoods blow, And strip the ashes of their green.

You still with tearful tones pursue Your lost, lost Mystes; Hesper sees Your passion when he brings the dew, And when before the sun he flees.

Yet not for loved Antilochus Grey Nestor wasted all his years In grief; nor o'er young Troilus His parents' and his sisters' tears

For ever flow'd. At length have done With these soft sorrows; rather tell Of Caesar's trophies newly won, And hoar Niphates' icy fell,

And Medus' flood, 'mid conquer'd tribes Rolling a less presumptuous tide, And Scythians taught, as Rome prescribes, Henceforth o'er narrower steppes to ride.

Licinius, trust a seaman's lore: Steer not too boldly to the deep, Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shore Too closely creep.

Who makes the golden mean his guide, Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark, Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and pride Are envy's mark.

With fiercer blasts the pine's dim height Is rock'd; proud towers with heavier fall Crash to the ground; and thunders smite The mountains tall.

In sadness hope, in gladness fear 'Gainst coming change will fortify Your breast. The storms that Jupiter Sweeps o'er the sky

He chases. Why should rain today Bring rain tomorrow? Python's foe Is pleased sometimes his lyre to play, Nor bends his bow.

Be brave in trouble; meet distress With dauntless front; but when the gale Too prosperous blows, be wise no less, And shorten sail.

O ask not what those sons of war, Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend, Disjoin'd from us by Hadria 's bar, Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spend

A life so simple. Youth removes, And Beauty too; and hoar Decay Drives out the wanton tribe of Loves And Sleep, that came or night or day.

The sweet spring-flowers not always keep Their bloom, nor moonlight shines the same Each evening. Why with thoughts too deep O'ertask a mind of mortal frame?

Why not, just thrown at careless ease 'Neath plane or pine, our locks of grey Perfumed with Syrian essences And wreathed with roses, while we may,

Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shame The cares that waste us. Where's the slave To quench the fierce Falernian's flame With water from the passing wave?

Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home? Go, bid her take her ivory lyre, The runaway, and haste to come, Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire.

The weary war where fierce Numantia bled, Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian main Purpled with Punic blood—not mine to wed These to the lyre's soft strain,

Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine, Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome, The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shine Of the resplendent dome

Of ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, best In pictured prose of Caesar's warrior feats Will tell, and captive kings with haughty crest Led through the Roman streets.

On me the Muse has laid her charge to tell Of your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hue Of her bright eye, her heart that beats so well To mutual passion true:

How nought she does but lends her added grace, Whether she dance, or join in bantering play, Or with soft arms the maiden choir embrace On great Diana's day.

Say, would you change for all the wealth possest By rich Achaemenes or Phrygia 's heir, Or the full stores of Araby the blest, One lock of her dear hair,

While to your burning lips she bends her neck, Or with kind cruelty denies the due She means you not to beg for, but to take, Or snatches it from you?

Black day he chose for planting thee, Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground, The bane of children yet to be, The scandal of the village round.

His father's throat the monster press'd Beside, and on his hearthstone spilt, I ween, the blood of midnight guest; Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guilt

Is hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all— Who planted in my rural stead Thee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fall Upon thy blameless master's head.

The dangers of the hour! no thought We give them; Punic seaman's fear Is all of Bosporus , nor aught Reeks he of pitfalls otherwhere;

The soldier fears the mask'd retreat Of Parthia ; Parthia dreads the thrall Of Rome ; but Death with noiseless feet Has stolen and will steal on all.

How near dark Pluto's court I stood, And Aeacus' judicial throne, The blest seclusion of the good, And Sappho, with sweet lyric moan

Bewailing her ungentle sex, And thee, Alcaeus, louder far Chanting thy tale of woful wrecks, Of woful exile, woful war!

In sacred awe the silent dead Attend on each: but when the song Of combat tells and tyrants fled, Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.

What marvel, when at those sweet airs The hundred-headed beast spell-bound Each black ear droops, and Furies' hairs Uncoil their serpents at the sound?

Prometheus too and Pelops' sire In listening lose the sense of woe; Orion hearkens to the lyre, And lets the lynx and lion go.

Ah, Postumus! they fleet away, Our years, nor piety one hour Can win from wrinkles and decay, And Death's indomitable power;

Not though three hundred bullocks flame Each year, to soothe the tearless king Who holds huge Geryon's triple frame And Tityos in his watery ring,

That circling flood, which all must stem, Who eat the fruits that Nature yields, Wearers of haughtiest diadem, Or humblest tillers of the fields.

In vain we shun war's contact red Or storm-tost spray of Hadrian main: In vain, the season through, we dread For our frail lives Scirocco's bane.

Cocytus' black and stagnant ooze Must welcome you, and Danaus' seed Ill-famed, and ancient Sisyphus To never-ending toil decreed.

Your land, your house, your lovely bride Must lose you; of your cherish'd trees None to its fleeting master's side Will cleave, but those sad cypresses.

Your heir, a larger soul, will drain The hundred-padlock'd Caecuban, And richer spilth the pavement stain Than e'er at pontiff's supper ran.

Few roods of ground the piles we raise Will leave to plough; ponds wider spread Than Lucrine lake will meet the gaze On every side; the plane unwed

Will top the elm; the violet-bed, The myrtle, each delicious sweet, On olive-grounds their scent will shed, Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;

Thick bays will screen the midday range Of fiercest suns. Not such the rule Of Romulus, and Cato sage, And all the bearded, good old school.

Each Roman's wealth was little worth, His country's much; no colonnade For private pleasance wooed the North With cool “prolixity of shade.”

None might the casual sod disdain To roof his home; a town alone, At public charge, a sacred fane Were honour'd with the pomp of stone.

For ease, in wide Aegean caught, The sailor prays, when clouds are hiding The moon, nor shines of starlight aught For seaman's guiding:

For ease the Mede , with quiver gay: For ease rude Thrace , in battle cruel: Can purple buy it, Grosphus? Nay, Nor gold, nor jewel.

No pomp, no lictor clears the way 'Mid rabble-routs of troublous feelings, Nor quells the cares that sport and play Round gilded ceilings.

More happy he whose modest board His father's well-worn silver brightens; No fear, nor lust for sordid hoard, His light sleep frightens.

Why bend our bows of little span? Why change our homes for regions under Another sun? What exiled man From self can sunder?

Care climbs the bark, and trims the sail, Curst fiend! nor troops of horse can 'scape her, More swift than stag, more swift than gale That drives the vapour.

Blest in the present, look not forth On ills beyond, but soothe each bitter With slow, calm smile. No suns on earth Unclouded glitter.

Achilles' light was quench'd at noon; A long decay Tithonus minish'd; My hours, it may be, yet will run When yours are flnish'd.

For you Sicilian heifers low, Bleat countless flocks; for you are neighing Proud coursers; Afric purples glow For your arraying

With double dyes; a small domain, The soul that breathed in Grecian harping, My portion these; and high disdain Of ribald carping.

Why rend my heart with that sad sigh? It cannot please the gods or me That you, Maecenas, first should die, My pillar of prosperity.

Ah! should I lose one half my soul Untimely, can the other stay Behind it? Life that is not whole, Is that as sweet? The self-same day

Shall crush us twain; no idle oath Has Horace sworn; whene'er you go, We both will travel, travel both The last dark journey down below.

No, not Chimaera's fiery breath, Nor Gyas, could he rise again, Shall part us; Justice, strong as death, So wills it; so the Fates ordain.

Whether 'twas Libra saw me born Or angry Scorpio, lord malign Of natal hour, or Capricorn, The tyrant of the western brine,

Our planets sure with concord strange Are blended. You by Jove's blest power Were snatch'd from out the baleful range Of Saturn, and the evil hour

Was stay'd, when rapturous benches full Three times the auspicious thunder peal'd; Me the curst trunk, that smote my skull, Had slain; but Faunus, strong to shield

The friends of Mercury, check'd the blow In mid descent. Be sure to pay The victims and the fane you owe; Your bard a humbler lamb will slay.

Carven ivory have I none No golden cornice in my dwelling shines; Pillars choice of Libyan stone Upbear no architrave from Attic mines;

'Twas not mine to enter in To Attalus' broad realms, an unknown heir, Nor for me fair clients spin Laconian purples for their patron's wear.

Truth is mine, and Genius mine; The rich man comes, and knocks at my low door: Favour'd thus, I ne'er repine, Nor weary out indulgent Heaven for more:

In my Sabine homestead blest, Why should I further tax a generous friend? Suns are hurrying suns a-west, And newborn moons make speed to meet their end.

You have hands to square and hew Vast marble-blocks, hard on your day of doom, Ever building mansions new, Nor thinking of the mansion of the tomb.

Now you press on ocean's bound, Where waves on Baiae beat, as earth were scant; Now absorb your neighbour's ground, And tear his landmarks up, your own to plant.

Hedges set round clients' farms Your avarice tramples; see, the outcasts fly, Wife and husband, in their arms Their fathers' gods, their squalid family.

Yet no hall that wealth e'er plann'd Waits you more surely than the wider room Traced by Death's yet greedier hand. Why strain so far? you cannot leap the tomb.

Earth removes the impartial sod Alike for beggar and for monarch's child: Nor the slave of Hell's dark god Convey'd Prometheus back, with bribe beguiled.

Pelops he and Pelops' sire Holds, spite of pride, in close captivity; Beggars, who of labour tire, Call'd or uncall'd, he hears and sets them free.

Bacchus I saw in mountain glades Retired (believe it, after years!) Teaching his strains to Dryad maids, While goat-hoof'd satyrs prick'd their ears.

Evoe! my eyes with terror glare; My heart is revelling with the god; 'Tis madness! Evoe! spare, O spare, Dread wielder of the ivied rod!

Yes, I may sing the Thyiad crew, The stream of wine, the sparkling rills That run with milk, and honey-dew That from the hollow trunk distils;

And I may sing thy consort's crown, New set in heaven, and Pentheus' hall With ruthless ruin thundering down, And proud Lycurgus' funeral.

Thou turn'st the rivers, thou the sea; Thou, on far summits, moist with wine, Thy Bacchants' tresses harmlessly Dost knot with living serpent-twine.

Thou, when the giants, threatening wrack, Were clambering up Jove's citadel, Didst hurl o'erweening Rhoetus back, In tooth and claw a lion fell.

Who knew thy feats in dance and play Deem'd thee belike for war's rough game Unmeet: but peace and battle-fray Found thee, their centre, still the same.

Grim Cerberus wagg'd his tail to see Thy golden horn, nor dreamd of wrong. But gently fawning, follow'd thee, And lick'd thy feet with triple tongue.

No vulgar wing, nor weakly plied, Shall bear me through the liquid sky; A two-form'd bard, no more to bide Within the range of envy's eye

'Mid haunts of men. I, all ungraced By gentle blood, I, whom you call Your friend, Maecenas, shall not taste Of death, nor chafe in Lethe's thrall.

E'en now a rougher skin expands Along my legs: above I change To a white bird; and o'er my hands And shoulders grows a plumage strange:

Fleeter than Icarus, see me float O'er Bosporus, singing as I go, And o'er Gaetulian sands remote, And Hyperborean fields of snow;

By Dacian horde, that masks its fear Of Marsic steel, shall I be known, And furthest Scythian: Spain shall hear My warbling, and the banks of Rhone .

No dirges for my fancied death; No weak lament, no mournful stave; All clamorous grief were waste of breath, And vain the tribute of a grave.

Bid the unhallow'd crowd avaunt! Keep holy silence; strains unknown Till now, the Muses' hierophant, I sing to youths and maids alone.

Kings o'er their flocks the sceptre wield; E'en kings beneath Jove's sceptre bow: Victor in giant battle-field, He moves all nature with his brow.

This man his planted walks extends Beyond his peers; an older name One to the people's choice commends; One boasts a more unsullied fame;

One plumes him on a larger crowd Of clients. What are great or small? Death takes the mean man with the proud; The fatal urn has room for all.

When guilty Pomp the drawn sword sees Hung o'er her, richest feasts in vain Strain their sweet juice her taste to please; No lutes, no singing birds again

Will bring her sleep. Sleep knows no pride; It scorns not cots of village hinds, Nor shadow-trembling river-side, Nor Tempe , stirr'd by western winds.

Who, having competence, has all, The tumult of the sea defies, Nor fears Arcturus' angry fall, Nor fears the Kid-star's sullen rise,

Though hail-storms on the vineyard beat, Though crops deceive, though trees complain, One while of showers, one while of heat, One while of winter's barbarous reign.

Fish feel the narrowing of the main From sunken piles, while on the strand Contractors with their busy train Let down huge stones, and lords of land

Affect the sea: but fierce Alarm Can clamber to the master's side: Black Cares can up ihe galley swarm, And close behind the horseman ride.

If Phrygian marbles soothe not pain, Nor star-bright purple's costliest wear, Nor vines of true Falernian strain, Nor Achaemenian spices rare,

Why with rich gate and pillard range Upbuild new mansions, twice as high, Or why my Sabine vale exchange For more laborious luxury?

To suffer hardness with good cheer, In sternest school of warfare bred, Our youth should learn; let steed and spear Make him one day the Parthian's dread;

Cold skies, keen perils, brace his life. Methinks I see from rampired town Some battling tyrant's matron wife, Some maiden, look in terror down,—

“Ah, my dear lord, untrain'd in war! O tempt not the infuriate mood Of that fell lion I see! from far He plunges through a tide of blood!“

What joy, for fatherland to die! Death's darts e'en flying feet o'ertake, Nor spare a recreant chivalry, A back that cowers, or loins that quake.

True Virtue never knows defeat: Her robes she keeps unsullied still, Nor takes, nor quits, her curule seat To please a people's veering will.

True Virtue opens heaven to worth: She makes the way she does not find: The vulgar crowd, the humid earth, Her soaring pinion leaves behind.

Seal'd lips have blessings sure to come: Who drags Eleusis ' rite today, That man shall never share my home, Or join my voyage: roofs give way

And boats are wreck'd: true men and thieves Neglected Justice oft confounds: Though Vengeance halt, she seldom leaves The wretch whose flying steps she hounds.

The man of firm and righteous will, No rabble, clamorous for the wrong, No tyrant's brow, whose frown may kill, Can shake the strength that makes him strong:

Not winds, that chafe the sea they sway, Nor Jove's right hand, with lightning red: Should Nature's pillar'd frame give way, That wreck would strike one fearless head.

Pollux and roving Hercules Thus won their way to Heaven's proud steep, 'Mid whom Augustus, couch'd at ease, Dyes his red lips with nectar deep.

For this, great Bacchus , tigers drew Thy glorious car, untaught to slave In harness: thus Quirinus flew On Mars ' wing'd steeds from Acheron's wave,

When Juno spoke with Heaven's assent: “O Ilium , Ilium , wretched town! The judge accurst, incontinent, And stranger dame have dragg'd thee down.

Pallas and I, since Priam's sire Denied the gods his pledged reward, Had doom'd them all to sword and fire, The people and their perjured lord.

No more the adulterous guest can charm The Spartan queen: the house forsworn No more repels by Hector's arm My warriors, baffled and outworn:

Hush'd is the war our strife made long: I welcome now, my hatred o'er, A grandson in the child of wrong, Him whom the Trojan priestess bore.

Receive him, Mars! the gates of flame May open: let him taste forgiven The nectar, and enrol his name Among the peaceful ranks of Heaven.

Let the wide waters sever still Ilium and Rome , the exiled race May reign and prosper where they will: So but in Paris ' burial-place

The cattle sport, the wild beasts hide Their cubs, the Capitol may stand All bright, and Rome in warlike pride O'er Media stretch a conqueror's hand.

Aye, let her scatter far and wide Her terror, where tbe land-lock'd waves Europe from Afric's shore divide, Where swelling Nile the corn-field laves—

Of strength more potent to disdain Hid gold, best buried in the mine, Than gather it with hand profane, That for man's greed would rob a shrine.

Whate'er the bound to earth ordain'd, There let her reach the arm of power, Travelling, where raves the fire unrein'd, And where the storm-cloud and the shower.

Yet, warlike Roman, know thy doom, Nor, drunken with a conqueror's joy, Or blind with duteous zeal, presume To build again ancestral Troy .

Should Troy revive to hateful life, Her star again should set in gore, While I, Jove's sister and his wife, To victory led my host once more.

Though Phoebus thrice in brazen mail Should case her towers, they thrice should fall, Storm'd by my Greeks: thrice wives should wail Husband and son, themselves in thrall.”—

Such thunders from the lyre of love! Back, wayward Muse! refrain, refrain To tell the talk of gods above, And dwarf high themes in puny strain.

Come down, Calliope, from above: Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire: Or if a graver note thou love, With Phoebus' cittern and his lyre.

You hear her? or is this the play Of fond illusion? Hark! meseems Through gardens of the good I stray, 'Mid murmuring gales and purling streams.

Me, as I lay on Vultur's steep, A truant past Apulia 's bound, O'ertired, poor child, with play and sleep, With living green the stock-doves crown'd—

A legend, nay, a miracle, By Acherontia's nestlings told, By all in Bantine glade that dwell, Or till the rich Forentan mould.

“Bears, vipers, spared him as he lay, The sacred garland deck'd his hair, The myrtle blended with the bay: The child's inspired: the gods were there.”

Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me still On Sabine heights, or lets me range Where cool Praeneste , Tibur 's hill, Or liquid Baiae proffers change.

Me to your springs, your dances true, Philippi bore not to the ground, Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew, Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.

Grant me your presence, blithe and fain Mad Bosporus shall my bark explore; My foot shall tread the sandy plain That glows beside Assyria's shore;

'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe, And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood, And quiver'd Scythians, will I go Unharm'd, and look on Tanais ' flood.

When Caesar's self in peaceful town The weary veteran's home has made, You bid him lay his helmet down And rest in your Pierian shade.

Mild thoughts you plant, and joy to see Mild thoughts take root. The nations know How with descending thunder he The impious Titans hurl'd below,

Who rules dull earth and stormy seas, And towns of men, and realms of pain, And gods, and mortal companies, Alone, impartial in his reign.

Yet Jove had fear'd the giant rush, Their upraised arms, their port of pride, And the twin brethren bent to push Huge Pelion up Olympus ' side.

But Typhon, Mimas, what could these, Or what Porphyrion's stalwart scorn, Rhoetus, or he whose spears were trees, Enceladus, from earth uptorn,

As on they rush'd in mad career 'Gainst Pallas' shield? Here met the foe Fierce Vulcan , queenly Juno here, And he who ne'er shall quit his bow,

Who laves in clear Castalian flood His locks, and loves the leafy growth Of Lycia next his native wood, The Delian and the Pataran both.

Strength, mindless, falls by its own weight; Strength, mix'd with mind, is made more strong By the just gods, who surely hate The strength whose thoughts are set on wrong.

Let hundred-handed Gyas bear His witness, and Orion known Tempter of Dian, chaste and fair, By Dian's maiden dart o'erthrown.

Hurl'd on the monstrous shapes she bred, Earth groans, and mourns her children thrust To Orcus; Aetna 's weight of lead Keeps down the fire that breaks its crust;

Still sits the bird on Tityos' breast, The warder of Unlawful love; Still suffers lewd Pirithous, prest By massive chains no hand may move.

Jove rules in heaven, his thunder shows; Henceforth Augustus earth shall own Her present god, now Briton foes And Persians bow before his throne.

Has Crassus' soldier ta'en to wife A base barbarian, and grown grey (Woe, for a nation's tainted life!) Earning his foemen-kinsmen's pay,

His king, forsooth, a Mede , his sire A Marsian? can he name forget, Gown, sacred shield, undying fire, And Jove and Rome are standing yet?

'Twas this that Regulus foresaw, What time he spurn'd the foul disgrace Of peace, whose precedent would draw Destruction on an unborn race,

Should aught but death the prisoner's chain Unrivet. “I have seen,” he said, “ Rome 's eagle in a Punic fane, And armour, ne'er a blood-drop shed,

Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seen Free sons of Rome with arms fast tied; The fields we spoil'd with corn are green, And Carthage opes her portals wide.

The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold, Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heap On baseness loss. The hues of old Revisit not the wool we steep;

And genuine worth, expell'd by fear, Returns not to the worthless slave. Break but her meshes, will the deer Assail you? then will he be brave

Who once to faithless foes has knelt; Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly, Who with bound arms the cord has felt, The coward, and has fear'd to die.

He knows not, he, how life is won; Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade! Great art thou, Carthage ! mate the sun, While Italy in dust is laid!”

His wife's pure kiss he waved aside, And prattling boys, as one disgraced, They tell us, and with manly pride Stern on the ground his visage placed.

With counsel thus ne'er else aread He nerved the fathers' weak intent, And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, sped Into illustrious banishment.

Well witting what the torturer's art Design'd him, with like unconcern The press of kin he push'd apart And crowds encumbering his return,

As though, some tedious business o'er Of clients' court, his journey lay Towards Venafrum 's grassy floor, Or Sparta-built Tarentum 's bay.

Your fathers' guilt you still must pay, Till, Roman, you restore each shrine, Each temple, 'mouldering in decay,

And smoke-grimed statue, scarce divine. Revering Heaven, you rule below; Be that your base, your coping still;

'Tis Heaven neglected bids o'erflow The measure of Italian ill. Now Pacorus and Monaeses twice

Have given our unblest arms the foil; Their necklaces, of mean device; Smiling they deck with Roman spoil.