O Pollio, thou the great defence
Of sad, impleaded innocence,

On whom to weigh the grand debate,
In deep consult the fathers wait;

For whom the triumphs o'er Dalmatia spread
Unfading honors round thy laurel'd head.

Lo! now the clarion's voice I hear, Its threat'ning murmurs pierce mine ear; And in thy lines with brazen breath The trumpet sounds the charge of death; Now, now the flash of brandish'd arms affright The flying steed, and mars the rider's sight!

Panting with terror I survey

The martial host in dread array,

The chiefs, how valiant and how just!
Defil'd with not inglorious dust,

And all the world in chains but Cato see
Of soul unshock'd and savage to be free.

Imperial Juno, fraught with ire,
And all the partial gods of Tyre,
Who, feeble to revenge her cries,
Retreated to their native skies,
Have in the victor's bleeding race repaid
Jugurtha's ruin and appeas'd his shade.

What plain, by mortals travers'd o'er,
Is not enrich'd with Roman gore?
Unnumber'd sepulchres record

The deathful harvest of the sword,

And proud Hesperia rushing into thrall,

While distant Parthia heard the cumberous fall.

What gulf, what rapid river flows
Unconscious of our wasteful woes?
What rolling sea's unfathom'd tide
Have not the Daunian slaughters dy'd?
What coast, encircled by the briny flood,
Boasts not the shameful tribute of our blood?

But thou, my Muse, to whom belong
The sportive jest and jocund song:
Beyond thy province cease to stray,
Nor vain revive the plaintive lay:
Seek humbler measures, indolently laid
With me beneath some love-sequester'd shade.

D2

1

ODE II.

TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS.

OLD hath no lustre of its own,

GOL

It shines by temperate use alone,
And when in earth it hoarded lies
My Sallust can the mass despise.
With never-failing wing shall fame
To latest ages bear the name
Of Proculeius, who could prove,
A father, in a brother's love.
By virtue's precepts to control
The thirsty cravings of the soul
Is over wider realms to reign,
Unenvied monarch, than if Spain
You could to distant Lybia join,
And both the Carthages were thine.
The dropsy, by indulgence nurs'd,
Pursues us with increasing thirst,
Till art expels the cause, and drains
The wat'ry languor from our veins.
True virtue can the crowd unteach
Their false, mistaken forms of speech;
Virtue, to crowds a foe profest,
Disdains to number with the blest,
Phraates by his slaves ador'd
And to the Parthian crown restor❜d,
But gives the diadem, the throne,
And laurel wreath to him alone,
Who can a treasur'd mass of gold
With firm, undazzled eye behold.

IN

ODE III.

TO DELLIUS.

arduous hours an equal mind maintain,
Nor let your spirit rise too high,

Tho' fortune kindly change the scene,
Alas! my Dellius, thou wert born to die,
Whether your life in sadness pass,

Or wing'd with pleasure glide away;
Whether, reclining on the grass,

You bless with choicer wine the festal day,

Where the pale poplar and the pine

Expel th' inhospitable beam;

In kindly shades their branches twine,
And toils, obliquely swift, the purling stream.

There pour your wines, your odors shed,
Bring forth the rosy, short-liv'd flower,

While Fate yet spins thy mortal thread,

While youth and fortune give th' indulgent hour.

Your purchas'd woods, your house of state,
Your villa wash'd by Tiber's wave,

You must, my Dellius, yield to Fate,

And to your heir these high-pil'd treasures leave.

Tho' you could boast a monarch's birth;
Tho' wealth unbounded round thee flows;
Tho' poor, and sprung from vulgar earth,
No pity for his victim Pluto knows,

For all must tread the paths of Fate,
And ever shakes the mortal urn,
Whose lot embarks us, soon or late,

On Charon's boat, ah! never to return.

ODE IV.

TO XANTHIAS PHOCEUS.

BLUSH not, my Phoceus, tho' a dame

Of servile state thy breast enflame;
A slave could stern Achilles move,
And bend his haughty soul to love:
Ajax, invincible in arms,

Was captiv'd by his captive's charms;
Atrides, midst his triumphs mourn'd,
And for a ravish'd virgin burn'd,
What time, the fierce barbarian bands
Fell by Pelides' conquering hands,
And Troy (her Hector swept away)
Became to Greece an easier prey.

Who knows, when Phyllis is your bride,
To what high stock you'll be allied?
Her parent's dear, of gentle race, 1
Shall not their son-in-law disgrace.

She sprung from kings, or nothing less,
And weeps the family's distress.

Think not a maid so fair, so chaste,
By vulgar sires can be debas'd;
To shameless, prostituted earth,

Think not that Phyllis owes her birth,

Who with such firmness could disdain

The force and flattery of gain,

Yet, after all, believe me, friend,

I can with innocence commend

Her blooming face, her snowy arms,

Her taper leg, and all her charms,
For, trembling on to forty years
My age forbids all jealous fears.