O DE S.

BOOK III.

ODE I.

MONARCHS

on earth their power extend,

Monarchs to Jove submissive bend,

And own the sovereign god,

With glorious triumph who subdu'd

The Titan race, gigantic brood!

And shakes whole nature with his nod.

When rival candidates contend,

And to the field of Mars descend,
To urge th' ambitious claim,

Some of illustrious birth are proud,

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Some of their clients vassal crowd,

And some of virtue's fame.

Others the rural labor love,

And joy to plant the spreading grove,
The furrow'd glebe to turn;

Yet with impartial hand shall Fate

Both of the lowly and the great

Shake the capacious urn.

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For the first Strophe of this Ode, see the Secular Ode,

Behold the wretch, with conscious dread,
In pointed vengeance o'er his head
Who views th' impending sword;
Nor dainties force his pall'd desire,
Nor chant of birds, nor vocal lyre

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Where zephyrs wave the balmy wing,

And fan the buxom air.

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With angry lustre shine;

Whether his vines be smit with hail,
Whether his promis'd harvests fail,

Perfidious to his toil;

Whether his drooping trees complain
Of angry winter's chilling rain,

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Or stars that burn the soil.

Not such the haughty lord, who lays
His deep foundations in the seas,

And scorns earth's narrow bound;
The fish affrighted feel their waves
Contracted by his numerous slaves,

Even in the vast profound.

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High tho' his structures rise in air,
Threat'ning remorse, and black despair
This haughty lord shall find,
O'ertake his armed galley's speed;
And when he mounts the flying steed,
Sits gloomy care behind.

If purple, which the morn outshines,
Or marble from the Phrygian mines,
Tho' labor'd high with art,
If essence, breathing sweets divine,
Or flowing bowls of generous wine,
Ill soothe an anxious heart,

On columns, rais'd in modern style,
Why should I plan the lofty pile

To rise with envied state?

Why, for a vain, superfluous store,

Which would encumber me the more,

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Resign my Sabine seat?

OUR

ODE II.

TO HIS FRIENDS.

UR hardy youth should learn to bear
Sharp want, to rein the warlike steed,

To hurl the well-directed spear

With pointed force, and bid the Parthian bleed.

Thus form'd in war's tumultuous trade

Thro' summer's heat, and winter's cold,

Some tyrant's queen, or blooming maid,
Shall from her walls the martial youth behold,

Deep-sighing lest he royal spouse,

Untaught the deathful sword to wield,

That lion, in his wrath, should rouse,

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Whom furious rage drives thro' th'ensanguin'd field.

What joys, what glories round him wait,
Who bravely for his country dies!
While, with dishonest wounds, shall Fate
Relentless stab the coward as he flies.

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She shews the paths, which heroes trod, Then bids him boldly tempt the sky,

Spurn off his mortal clay, and rise a god.

To silence due rewards we give,

And they, who mysteries reveal Beneath my roof shall never live,

Shall never hoist with me the doubtful sail.

When Jove in anger strikes the blow,

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Oft with the bad the righteous bleed: Yet with sure steps, tho' lame and slow, Vengeance o'ertakes the trembling villain's speed,