SAW (let future times believe)
The god of wine his lectures give; 'Midst rocks far distant was the scene; With ears erect the satyrs stood, And every goddess of the wood
Listened th' instructive, solemn strain.
The recent terror heaves my breast,
Yet, with th' inspiring power possest,
Tumultuous joys my soul have warm'd ;
Dreadful, who shak'st the ivy spear,
Thy votary thus prostrate hear,
And be thy rage, thy rage disarm'd.
Give me to sing, by thee inspir'd,
Thy priestesses to madness fir'd:
Fountains of wine shall pour along,
And, melting from the hollow tree,
The golden treasures of the bee,
And streams of milk shall fill the song.
Fair Ariadne's crown shall rise,
And add new glories to the skies:
While I to listening nations tell
How impious Pentheus' palace burn'd,
With hideous ruin overturn'd,
And how the mad Lycurgus fell.
Indus and Ganges own thy sway,
Barbaric seas thy power obey,
And o'er the pathless mountain's height (Her head with horrid snakes enroll'd, Which harmless writhe their angry fold)
Thy raptur'd priestess speeds her flight.
When rising fierce in impious arms,
The giant-race with dire alarms
Assail'd the sacred realms of light,
With lion-wrath, and dreadful paw,
With blood-besmear'd and foaming jaw,
You put their horrid chief to flight.
For dancing form'd, for love and wit,
You seem'd for war's rude toils unfit,
And polish'd to each softer grace:
But dreadful when in arms you shone,
You made the fatal art your own,
In war excelling as in peace.
With golden horn supremely bright,
You darted round the bending light
Far-beaming through the gloom of hell:
When Cerberus, with fear amaz'd,
Forgot his rage, and fawning gaz'd,
And at thy feet adoring fell.
WITH strong, unwonted wing I rise,
A two-form'd poet, through the skies.
Far above envy will I soar,
And tread this worthless earth no more.
For know, ye rivals of my fame,
Though lowly born, a vulgar name,
I will not condescend to die,
Nor in the Stygian waters lie.
A rougher skin now clothes my thighs,
Into a swan's fair form I rise,
And feel the feather'd plumage shed
Its down, and o'er my shoulders spread.
Swift as with Dædalean wing,
Harmonious bird, I'll soaring sing,
And, in my flight, the foamy shores
Where Bosphorus tremendous roars,
The regions bound by northern cold,
And Lybia's burning sands, behold.
Then to the learned sons of Spain,
To him who ploughs the Scythian main,
To him who, with dissembled fears,
Conscious, the Roman arms reveres,
To him who drinks the rapid Rhone,
Shall Horace, deathless bard! be known.
My friends, the funeral sorrow spare,
The plaintive song, and tender tear;
Nor let the voice of grief profane
With loud laments the solemn scene;
Nor o'er your poet's empty urn
With useless, idle sorrows mourn.
MONARCHS on earth their power extend,
Monarchs to Jove submissive bend,
And own the sovereign god,
With glorious triumph who subdu'd
The Titan race, gigantic brood!
And shakes whole nature with his nod.
When rival candidates contend,
And to the field of Mars descend
To urge th' ambitious claim,
Some of illustrious birth are proud,
Some of their clients vassal crowd,
And some of virtue's fame.
Others the rural labour love,
And joy to plant the spreading grove,
The furrow'd glebe to turn;
Yet with impartial hand shalt Fate
Both of the lowly and the great
Shake the capacious urn.
Behold the wretch, with conscious dread,
In pointed vengeance o'er his head
Who views th' impending sword;
Nor dainties force his pall'd desire,
Nor chant of birds, nor vocal lyre,
To him can sleep afford;
Heart-soothing sleep, which not disdains
The rural cot, and humble swains,
And shady river fair:
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