ECENAS, whose high lineage springs
From fair Etruria's ancient kings,
O thou, my patron and my friend,
On whom my life, my fame depend;
In clouds th' Olympic dust to roll,
To turn with kindling wheels the goal,
And gain the palm, victorious prize!
Exalt a mortal to the skies.
This man, by faction and debate
Rais'd to the first employs of state;
Another, who from Libya's plain
Sweeps to his barn the various grain;
A third, who with unwearied toil
Ploughs cheerful his paternal soil;
While in their several wishes blest,
Not all the wealth by kings possest,
Shall tempt, with fearful souls, to brave
The terrors of the foamy wave.
When loud the winds and waters wage
Wild war with elemental rage,
The merchant praises the retreat,
The quiet of his rural seat;
Yet, want untutor'd to sustain,
Soon rigs his shatter'd bark again.
No mean delights possess his soul,
With good old wine who crowns his bowl;
Whose early revels are begun
Ere half the course of day be run,
Now, by some sacred fountain laid,
Now, stretch'd beneath some bowering shade.
The tented camps a soldier charm,
Trumpets and fifes his bosom warm;
Their mingled sounds with joy he'll hear,
Those sounds of war, which mothers fear.
The sportsman, chill'd by midnight Jove,
Forgets his tender, wedded love,
Whether his faithful hounds pursue,
And hold the bounding hind in view;
Whether the boar his hunters foils,
And foaming breaks the spreading toils.
An ivy-wreath, fair Learning's prize,
Raises Mæcenas to the skies.
The breezy grove, the mazy round,
Where the light Nymphs and Satyrs bound,
If there the sacred Nine inspire
The breathing flute, and strike the lyre,
There let me fix my last retreat,
Far from the little vulgar, and the great.
But if you rank me with the choir,
Who tun'd with art the Grecian lyre,
Swift to the noblest heights of fame
Shall rise thy poet's deathless name,
NOUGH of snow and hail in tempests dire
Have pour'd on earth, while Heav'n's eternal
· Sire
With red right arm at his own temples hurl'd
His thunders, and alarm'd a guilty world,
Lest Pyrrha should again with plaintive cries
Behold the monsters of the deep arise,
When to the mountain-summit Proteus drove
His sea-born herd, and where the woodland dove
Late perch'd, his wonted seat, the scaly brood
Entangled hung upon the topmost wood,
And every timorous native of the plain
High-floating swam amid the boundless main.
We saw, push'd backward to his native source,
The yellow Tiber roll his rapid course,
With impious ruin threat'ning Vesta's fane,
And the great monuments of Numa's reign;
With grief and rage while Ilia's bosom glows,
Boastful, for her revenge, his waters rose:
But now, th' uxorious river glides away,
So Jove commands, smooth-winding to the sea.
And yet, less numerous by their parents' crimes,
Our sons shail hear, shall hear to latest times,
Of Roman arms with civil gore embru'd,
Which better had the Persian foe subdu'd.
Among her guardian gods, what pitying power
To raise her sinking state shall Rome implore?
Shall her own hallow'd virgins' earnest prayer
Harmonious charm offended Vesta's ear?
To whom shall Jove assign to purge away The guilty deed? Come then, bright god of day, But gracious veil thy shoulders beamy-bright, Oh! veil in clouds th' unsufferable light.
Or come, sweet queen of smiles, while round thee
On wanton wing, the powers of mirth and love;
Or hither, Mars, thine aspect gracious bend,
And powerful thy neglected race defend;
Parent of Rome, amidst the rage of fight
Sated with scenes of blood, thy fierce delight,
Thou, whom the polish'd helm, the noise of arms,
And the stern soldier's frown with transport warms,
Or thou, fair Maia's winged son, appear,
And human shape, in prime of manhood, wear;
Declar'd the guardian of th' imperial state,
Divine avenger of great Cæsar's fate:
Oh! late return to heav'n, and may thy reign With lengthen'd blessings fill thy wide domain; Nor let thy people's crimes provoke thy flight, On air swift-rising to the realms of light.
Great prince and father of the state, receive The noblest triumphs which thy Rome can give ; Nor let the Parthian, with unpunish'd pride, Beyond his bounds, O Cæsar, dare to ride.
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