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ODE XI.

TO LEUCONOE.

TRIVE not, Leuconoë, to pry Into the secret will of fate, Nor impious magic vainly try,

To know our lives' uncertain date.

Whether th' indulgent power divine
Hath many seasons yet in store,
Or this the latest winter thine,

Which breaks its waves against the shore.

Thy life with wiser arts be crown'd,
Thy philter'd wines abundant pour ;
The lengthen'd hope with prudence bound
Proportion'd to the flying hour:

Even while we talk in careless ease,
Our envious minutes wing their fight;
Instant the fleeting pleasure seize,

Nor trust to-morrow's doubtful light.

The uncertainty and shortness of life, which the Christian Divine urges as a reason to look forward to a future state of existence, the Heathen Philosopher gives as a motive to make the most of the present.

ODE XII.

HYMN TO JOVE,

WHAT man, what hero, on the tuneful lyre,

Or sharp-ton'd flute, will Clio chuse to raise Deathless to fame? What god? whose hallow'd name The sportive image of the voice

Shall thro' the shades of Helicon resound,
On Pindus, or on Hæmus ever cool,
From whence the forests in confusion wild
To vocal Orpheus urg'd their way;

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Who by his mother's art, harmonious muse,
With soft delay could stop the falling streams, 10
And winged winds; with strings of concert sweet
Powerful the listening oaks to lead.

Claims not th' eternal Sire his wonted praise?
Awful who reigns o'er gods and men supreme,

Who sea and earth-this universal globe

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With grateful change of seasons rules;
From whom no being of superior power,
Nothing of equal, second glory springs,
Yet first of all his progeny divine
Immortal honors Pallas claims:
God of the vine in deeds of valor bold,
Fair virgin-huntress of the savage race,
And Phoebus, dreadful with unerring dart,

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Nor will I not your praise proclaim. Alcides' labors, and fair Leda's twins,

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Fam'd for the rapid race, for wrestling fam'd, Shall grace my song; soon as whose star benign Thro' the fierce tempest shines serene,

Swift from the rocks down foams the broken surge, Hush'd fall the winds, the driving clouds disperse, 30 And all the threatening waves, so will the gods, Smooth sink upon the peaceful deep.

Here stops the song, doubtful whom next to praise,
Or Romulus, or Numa's peaceful reign,

The haughty ensigns of Tarquinius' throne,
Or Cato, glorious in his fall.

Grateful in higher tone the Muse shall sing
The fate of Regulus, the Scaurian race,
And Paulus, 'midst the waste of Canna's field
How greatly prodigal of life!

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Form'd by the hand of penury severe,

In dwellings suited to their small domain,
Fabricius, Curius, and Camillus rose;

To deeds of martial glory rose.
Marcellus, like a youthful tree of growth
Insensible, high shoots his spreading fame,
And like the moon, the feebler fires among,
Conspicuous shines the Julian star,
Saturnian Jove, parent and guardian god
Of human race, to thee the fates assign

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Ver. 36. Cato.] I think, beside the impropriety of placing Cato between Tarquin and Regulus, it was very improbable that Horace should praise Cato in an Ode written in honor of Augustus; for I have no doubt, but Virgil in the Eneid, means the elder Cato. Altering two letters only, and one particle in the original, I would read

An catenis

Nobile Lethum

Reguli an, &c.

which would make this change in the translation,

"Or glorious in his patriot fall"

leaving out the stop after fall.

The care of Cæsar's reign; to thine alone
Inferior let his empire rise;

Whether the Parthian's formidable powers,

Or farthest India's oriental sons,

With suppliant pride beneath his triumph fall, 55
Wide o'er a willing world shall he

Contented reign, and to thy throne shall bend
Submissive. Thou in thy tremendous car
Shalt shake Olympus' head, and at our groves
Polluted, hurl thy dreadful bolts.

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Ver. 52. Inferior.] The original has second, in contradic tion to what the Poet has just said, ver. 18.

"Nothing of equal, second glory springs,"

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ODE XIII.

TO LYDIA.

H! when on Telephus's charms,
His rosy neck, and ivory arms,
My Lydia's praise unceasing dwells,
What gloomy spleen my bosom swells?
On my pale cheek the colour dies,

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My reason in confusion flies,

And the down-stealing tear betrays

The lingering flame that inward preys.

I burn, when in excess of wine

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He soils those snowy arms of thine,
Or on thy lips the fierce-fond boy
Marks with his teeth the furious joy.
If yet my voice can reach your ear,
Hope not to find the youth sincere,
Cruel who hurts the fragrant kiss,
Which Venus bathes with nectar'd bliss.
Thrice happy they, in pure delights
Whom love with mutual bonds unites,
Unbroken by complaints or strife

Even to the latest hours of life.

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