ODE XVII.

TO TYNDARIS.

PAN

from Arcadia's heights descends

To visit oft my rural seat,

And here my tender goats defends

From rainy winds, and summer's fiery heat;

For when the vales wide-spreading round,
The sloping hills, and polish'd rocks
With his harmonious pipe resound,

In fearless safety graze my wandering flocks;

In safety thro' the woody brake

The latent shrubs and thyme explore,

Nor longer dread the speckled snake,
And tremble at the martial wolf no more.

Their poet to the gods is dear,

They love my piety and muse,

And all our rural honors here

Their flowery wealth around thee shall diffuse.

Here shall you tune Anacreon's lyre
Beneath a shady mountain's brow,

To sing frail Circe's guilty fire,

And chaste Penelope's unbroken vow.

Far from the burning dog-star's rage

Here shall you quaff our harmless wine; Nor here shall Mars intemperate wage

Rude war with him who rules the jovial vine.

Nor Cyrus' bold suspicions fear;
Not on thy softness shall he lay
His desperate hand thy clothes to tear,
Or brutal snatch thy festal crown away.

ODE XVIII.

TO VARUS.

ROUND Catilus' walls, or in Tiber's rich soil,
To plant the glad vine be my Varus' first toil;
For God hath propos'd to the wretch, who's athirst,
To drink, or with heart-gnawing cares to be curst.
Of war, or of want, who e'er prates o'er his wine?
For 'tis thine, father Bacchus, bright Venus, 'tis thine
To charm all his cares; yet that no one may pass
The freedom and mirth of a temperate glass,
Let us think on the Lapitha's quarrels so dire,
And the Thracians, whom wine can to madness inspire:
Insatiate of liquor when glow their full veins,
No distinction of vice, or of virtue remains.
Great god of the vine, who dost candor approve,
I ne'er will thy statues profanely remove;
I ne'er will thy rites so mysterious betray
To the broad-glaring eye of the tale-telling day.
Oh stop the loud cymbal, the cornet's alarms,
Whose sound, when the bacchanal's bosom it warms,
Arouses self-love by blindness misled,

And vanity lifting aloft the light head,
And honor of prodigal spirit, that shows,
Transparent as glass, all the secrets it knows.

ODE XIX.

ON GLYCERA.

VENUS, who gave the Cupids birth,

And the resistless god of wine,

With the gay power of wanton mirth,
Now bid my heart its peace resign;
Again for Glycera I burn,

And all my long-forgotten flames return.

As Parian marble pure and bright The shining maid my bosom warms; Her face too dazzling for the sight, Her sweet coquetting-how it charms! Whole Venus rushing thro' my veins No longer in her favorite Cyprus reigns;

No longer suffers me to write

Of Scythian, fierce in martial deed,

Or Parthian urging in his flight

The battle with reverted steed;

Such themes she will no more approve, Nor aught that sounds impertinent to love.

Here let the living altar rise

Adorn'd with every herb and flower; Here flame the incense to the skies,

And purest wine's libation pour; Due honors to the goddess paid,

Soft sinks to willing love the yielding maid.

ODE XX.

TO MECENAS.

A Poet's beverage, humbly cheap

(Should great Mæcenas be my guest)

The vintage of the Sabine grape,

But yet in sober cups shall crown the feast:

"Twas rack'd into a Grecian cask,

Its rougher juice to melt away,

I seal'd it too-a pleasing task!

With annual joy to mark the glorious day,

When in applausive shouts thy name
Spread from the theatre around,

Floating on thy own Tiber's stream,

And Echo, playful nymph, return'd the sound.

From the Cæcubian vintage prest

For you shall flow the racy wine;

But ah! my meagre cup's unblest

With the rich Formian or Falernian vine.

The reader may find the Twenty-first Ode in the Carmen Seculare.