cruel love, O Pettius, pierc'd my heart, How have I lost my once-lov'd lyric art!
Thrice have the woods their leafy honour mourn'd, Since for Inachia's beauties Horace burn'd.
How was I then (for I confess my shame)
Of every idle tale the laughing theme!
Oh! that I ne'er had known the jovial feast,
Where the deep sigh, that rends the labouring breast,
Where languor, and a gentle silence shows,
To every curious eye, the lover's woes.
Pettius, how often o'er the flowing bowl,
When the gay liquor warm'd my opening soul,
When Bacchus, jovial god, no more restrain'd
The modest secret, how have I complain'd,
That wealthy blockheads, in a female's eyes,
From a poor poet's genius bear the prize!
But if a generous rage my breast should warm,
I swore-no vain amusements e'er shall charm
My aching wounds. Ye vagrant winds, receive
The sighs, that sooth the pains they should relieve;
Here shall my shame of being conquer'd end,
Nor with such rivals will I more contend..
When thus, with solemn air, I vaunting said,
Inspir'd by thy advice I homeward sped:
But ah! my feet in wonted wanderings stray,
And to no friendly doors my steps betray;
There I forget my vows, forget my pride,
And at her threshold lay my tortur'd side.
EE what horrid tempests rise,
And contract the clouded skies;
Snows and showers fill the air,
And bring down the atmosphere.
Hark! what tempests sweep the floods!
How they shake the rattling woods!
Let us, while it's in our power,
Let us seize the fleeting hour;
While our cheeks are fresh and gay,
Let us drive old age away;
Let us smooth its gather'd brows,
Youth its hour of mirth allows.
Bring us down the mellow'd wine,
Rich with years, that equal mine;
Prithee, talk no more of sorrow,
To the gods belongs to-morrow,
And, perhaps, with gracious power
They may change the gloomy hour.
Let the richest essence shed
Eastern odours on your head,
While the soft Cyllenian lyre
Shall your labouring breast inspire.
To his pupil, brave and young,
Thus the noble Centaur sung:
Matchless mortal! though 'tis thine,
Proud to boast a birth divine,
Yet the banks, with cooling waves
Which the smooth Scamander laves;
And where Simoïs with pride
Rougher rolls his rapid tide,
Destin'd by unerring Fate,
Shall the sea-born hero wait.
There the Sisters, fated boy,
Shall thy thread of life destroy,
Nor shall azure Thetis more
Waft thee to thy natal shore;
Then let joy and mirth be thine,
Mirthful songs, and joyous wine,
And with converse blithe and gay
Drive all gloomy cares away.
CLEAR was the night, the face of heaven serene,
Bright shone the moon amidst her starry train, When round my neck as curls the tendril-vine(Loose are its curlings, if compar'd to thine); 'Twas then, insulting every heavenly power, That, as 1 dictated, you boldly swore:
While the gaunt wolf pursues the trembling sheep;
While fierce Orion harrows up the deep;
While Phoebus' locks float wanton in the wind,
Thus shall Neæra prove, thus ever kind.
But, if with aught of man was Horace born,
Severely shalt thou feel his honest scorn;
Nor will he tamely bear the bold delight,
With which his rival riots out the night,
But in his anger seek some kinder dame,
Warm with the raptures of a mutual flame;
Nor shall thy rage, thy grief, or angry charms
Recall the lover to thy faithless arms.
And thou, whoe'er thou art, who joy to shine,
Proud as thou art, in spoils which once were mine,
Though wide thy land extends, and large thy fold,
Though rivers roll for thee their purest gold,
Though nature's wisdom in her works were thine,
And beauties of the human face divine,
Yet soon thy pride her wandering love shall mourn, While I shall laugh, exulting in my turn.
N endless civil war, th' imperial state
By her own strength precipitates her fate.
What neighbouring nations, fiercely leagu'd in arms,
What Porsena, with insolent alarms
Threatening her tyrant monarch to restore;
What Spartacus, and Capua's rival power;
What Gaul, tumultuous and devoid of truth,
And fierce Germania, with her blue-eyed youth;
What Hannibal, on whose accursed head
Our sires their deepest imprecatious shed,
In vain attempted to her awful state,
Shall we, a blood-devoted race, complete?
Again shall savage beasts these hills possess?
And fell barbarians, wanton with success,
Scatter our city's flaming ruins wide,
Or through her streets in vengeful triumph ride,
And her great founder's hallow'd ashes spurn,
That sleep uninjur'd in their sacred urn?
But some, perhaps, to shun the rising shame (Which Heaven approve) would try some happier scheme.
As the Phocæans oft for freedom bled,
At length, with imprecated curses, fled,
And left to boars and wolves the sacred fane,
With all their household gods, ador'd in vain;
So let us fly, as far as earth extends,
Or where the vagrant wind our voyage bends.
Shall this, or shall some better scheme prevail?
Why do we stop to hoist the willing sail?
But let us swear, when floating rocks shall gain,
Rais'd from the deep, the surface of the main ;
When lowly Po the mountain-summit laves,
And Apennine shall plunge beneath the waves;
When nature's monsters meet in strange delight,
And the fell tigress shall with stags unite;
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