TH

ODE VII.

TO TORQUATUS.

THE snow dissolves, the field its verdure spreads,
The trees high wave in air their leafy heads;
Earth feels the change; the rivers calm subside,
And smooth along their banks decreasing glide;
The elder Grace, with her fair sister-train,
In naked beauty dances o'er the plain.
The circling hours, that swiftly wing their way,
And in their flight consume the smiling day;
Those circling hours, and all the various year,
Convince us, nothing is immortal here.

In vernal gales cold winter melts away;
Soon wastes the spring in summer's burning ray;
Yet summer dies in autumn's fruitful reign,
And slow-pae'd winter soon returns again.
The moon renews her orb with growing light;
But when we sink into the depths of night,
Where all the good, the rich, the brave are laid,
Our best remains are ashes and a shade.

Who knows that heaven, with ever-bounteous power,
Shall add to-morrow to the present hour?
The wealth you give to pleasure and delight,
Far from thy ravening heir shall speed its flight;
But soon as Minos, thron'd in awful state,
Shall o'er thee speak the solemn words of Fate,
Nor virtue, birth, nor eloquence divine,
Shall bid the grave its destin'd prey resign:
Nor chaste Diana from infernal night
Could bring her modest favourite back to light;
And hell-descending Theseus strove in vain
To break his amorous friend's Lethean chain.

ODE VIII.

TO CENSORINUS.

WITH liberal heart to every friend

A bowl or caldron would I send; Or tripods, which the Grecians gave, As rich rewards to heroes brave; Nor should the meanest gift be thine, If the rich works of art were mine, By Scopas or Parrhasius wrought, With animating skill who taught The shapeless stone with life to glow, Or bad the breathing colours flow, To imitate, in every line,

The form or human or divine.

But I nor boast the curious store, And you nor want, nor wish for more; 'Tis yours the joys of verse,to know, Such joys as Horace can bestow, While I can vouch my present's worth, And call its every virtue forth.

Nor columns, which the public raise, Engrav'd with monumental praise, By which the breath of life returns To heroes sleeping in their urns; Nor Hannibal, when swift he fled, His threats retorted on his head; Nor impious Carthage wrapt in flame, From whence great Scipio gain'd a name, Such glories round him could diffuse As the Calabrian poet's muse; And should the bard his aid deny, Thy worth shall unrewarded die.

Had envious silence left unsung The child from Mars and Ilia sprung, How had we known the hero's fame, From whom the Roman empire came?

The poet's favour, voice, and lays, Could Eacus from darkness raise, Snatch'd from the Stygian gulfs of hell, Among the blissful isles to dwell.

The Muse forbids the brave to die, The Muse enthrones him in the sky: Alcides, thus, in heaven is plac'd, And shares with Jove th' immortal feast; Thus the twin-stars have power to save The shatter'd vessel from the wave, And vine-crown'd Bacchus with success His jovial votaries can bless.

WHILE

ODE IX.

TO LOLLIUS.

WHILE with the Grecian bards I vie,
And raptur'd tune the social string,

Think not the song shall ever die,

Which with no vulgar art I sing,

Though born where Aufid rolls his sounding stream, In lands far distant from poetic fame.

What though the Muse her Homer thrones
High above all th' immortal choir,
Nor Pindar's rapture she disowns.

Nor hides the plaintive Cæan lyre:

Alcæus strikes the tyrant's soul with dread,
Nor yet is grave Stesichorus unread.

Whatever old Anacreon sung,

However tender was the lay,
In spite of Time is ever young,

Nor Sappho's amorous flames decay;
Her living songs preserve their charming art;
Her love still breathes the passions of her heart.

Helen was not the only fair,
By an unhappy passion fir'd,
Who the lewd ringlets of the hair

Of an adulterous beau admir'd;

Court arts, gold lace, and equipage have charmas
To tempt weak woman to a stranger's arms.

Nor first from Teucer's vengeful bow
The feather'd death unerring flew,

Nor was the Greek the single foe

Whose rage ill-fated Ilion knew

Greece had with heroes fill'd th' embattled plain, Wortby the Muse in her sublimest strain.

Nor Hector first transported heard
With fierce delight the war's alarms,
Nor brave Deïphobus appear'd

Amid the tented field in arms,

With glorious ardour prodigal of life,
To guard a darling son and faithful wife.

Before great Agamemnon reign'd,
Reign'd kings as great as he, and brave,
Whose huge ambition's now contain'd
In the small compass of a grave;

In endless night they sleep, unwept, unknown,
No bard had they to make all time their own.

In earth if it forgotten lies,

What is the valour of the brave?
What difference, when the coward dies,
And sinks in silence to his grave?
Nor, Lollius, will I not thy praise proclaimi,
But from oblivion vindicate thy fame.

Nor shall its livid power conceal

Thy toils-how glorious to the state! How constant to the public weal

Through all the doubtful turns of fate! Thy steady soul, by long experience found Erect alike, when Fortune smil'd or frown'd.

Villains, in public rapine bold,

Lollius, the just avenger, dread,
Who never by the charms of gold,
Shining seducer, was misled:

Beyond thy year such virtue shall extend,
And death alone thy consulate shall end.

Perpetual magistrate is he,

Who keeps strict Justice full in sight; With scorn rejects th' offender's fee,

Nor weighs convenience against right; Who bids the crowd at awful distance gaze, And Virtue's arms victoriously displays.