ODE VI.

TO THE ROMANS.

THOUGH guiltless of your fathers' crimes,

Roman, 'tis thine, to latest times,

The vengeance of the gods to bear,
Till you their awful domes repair,
Profan'd with smoke their statues raise,
And bid the sacred altars blaze.

That you the powers divine obey,
Boundless on earth extends your sway;
From hence your future glories date,
From hence expect the hand of Fate.
Th' offended gods, in horrors dire,
On sad Hesperia pour'd their ire:
The Parthian squadrons twice repell'd
Our inauspicious powers, and quell'd
Our boldest efforts, while they shone
With spoils from conquer'd Romans wou.
The Dacians, whose unerring art
Can wing with death the pointed dart;
Th' Ægyptian, for his navies fam'd,
Had Neptune's boundless empire claim'd,
And almost in their rage destroy'd
Imperial Rome, in civil strife employ'd.
Fruitful of crimes, this age first stain'd
Their hapless offspring, and profan'd
The nuptial bed, from whence the woes,
That various and unnumber'd rose
From this polluted fountain-head,
O'er Rome and o'er the nations spread.
With pliant limbs the tender maid
Now joys to learn the shameless trade
Of wanton dancing, and improves
The pleasures of licentious loves;
Then soon amid the bridal feast

Boldly she courts her husband's guest;

Her love no nice distinction knows,
But round the wandering pleasure throws,
Careless to hide the bold delight

In darkness and the shades of night.
Nor does she need the thin disguise;
The conscious husband bids her rise,
When some rich factor courts her charms,
And calls the wanton to his arms,
Then, prodigal of wealth and fame,
Profusely buys the costly, shame.

Not such the youth, of such a strain,
Who dyed with Punic gore the main;
Who Pyrrhus' flying war pursu'd,
Antiochus the Great subdu'd,

And taught that terror of the field,
The cruel Hannibal, to yield:
But a rough race, inur'd to toil,
With heavy spade to turn the soil,
And by a mother's will severe

To fell the wood, and homeward bear
The ponderous load, even when the sun
His downward course of light had run,
And from the western mountain's head
His changing shadows lengthening spread,
Unyok'd the team, with toil opprest,
And gave the friendly hour of rest.
What feels not Time's consuming rage?
More vicious than their fathers' age
Our sires begot the present race,
Of manners impious, bold and base;
And yet, with crimes to us unknown,

Our sons shall mark the coming age their own.

ODE VII.

TO ASTERIE.

AH! why does Asterie thus weep for the youth
Of constancy faithful, of honour and truth,

Whom the first kindly zephyrs, that breathe o'er the
spring,

Enrich'd with the wares of Bithynia shall bring?
Driven back from his course by the tempests, that rise
When stars of mad lustre rule over the skies,
At Oricum now poor Gyges must stay,

Where sleepless he weeps the cold winter away;
While his landlady Chloë, in sorrow of heart,
Bids her envoy of love exert all his art,

Who tells him how Chloë, unhappy the dame!
Deep sighs for your lover, and burns in your flame.
He tells him how Prœtus, deceiv'd by his wife,
Attempted, ah dreadful! Bellerophon's life,
And urg'd by false crimes, how he sought to destroy
The youth for refusing, too chastely, the joy:
How Peleus was almost dispatch'd to the dead,
While the lovely Magnessian abstemious he fled.
Then he turns every tale, and applies it with art,
To melt down his virtue, and soften his heart;
But constant and heart-whole young Gyges appears,
And deafer than rocks the tale-teller hears.
Then, fair-one, take heed, lest Enipeus should prove
A little too pleasing, and tempt thee to love;
And though without rival he shine in the course,
To rein the fierce steed though unequal his force,
Tho' matchless the swiftness with which he divides,
In crossing the Tiber, the rough-swelling tides,
Yet shut the fond door at evening's first shade,
Nor look down to the street at the soft serenade;
Or if cruel he call thee in love-sighing strain,
Yet more and more cruel be sure to remain.

ODE VIII.

TO MECENAS.

HE Greek and Roman languages are thine, THE

Their hallow'd customs, and their rites divine;
And well you might the flowery wreaths admire,
The fragrant incense, and the sacred fire,
Rais'd on the living turf, to hail the day
To which the married world their homage pay.
When on my head a tree devoted fell,
And almost crush'd me to the shades of hell,
Grateful I vow'd to him, who rules the vine,
A joyous banquet, while beneath his shrine
A snow-white goat should bleed; and when the year
Revolving bids this festal morn appear,

We'll pierce a cask with mellow juice replete,
Mellow'd with smoke since Tullus rul'd the state.
Come then, Mæcenas, and for friendship's sake,
A friend preserv'd, a hundred bumpers take.
Come drink the watchful tapers up to day,
While noise and quarrels shall be far away.
No more let Rome your anxious thoughts engage,
The Dacian falls beneath the victor's rage,
The Medes in civil wars their arms employ,
Inglorious wars! each other to destroy;
Our ancient foes, the haughty sons of Spain,
At length, indignant, feel the Roman chain;
With bows unbent the hardy Scythians yield,
Resolv'd to quit the long-disputed field.
No more the public claims thy pious fears:
Be not too anxious then with private cares,
But seize the gifts the present moment brings,
Those fleeting gifts, and leave severer things.

ODE IX.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HORACE AND

LYDIA.

Horace.

HILE I was pleasing to your arms,
Nor any youth, of happier charms,
Thy snowy bosom blissful press'd,
Not Persia's king like me was blest.
Lydia.

While for no other fair you burn'd,
Nor Lydia was for Chloë scorn'd,
What maid was then so blest as thine?
Not lia's fame could equal mine.

Horace.

Now Chloë reigns; her voice and lyre
Melt down the soul to soft desire;
Nor will I fear even death, to save
Her dearer beauties from the grave.
Lydia.

My heart young Calaïs inspires,
Whose bosom glows with mutual fires,
For whom I twice would die with joy,
If death would spare the charming boy.
Horace.

Yet what if Love, whose bands we broke,

Again should tame us to the yoke;

Should I shake off bright Chloe's chain,
And take my Lydia home again?

Lydia.

Though he exceed in beauty far
The rising lustre of a star;

Though light as cork thy fancy strays,

Thy passions wild as angry seas,

When vex'd with storms; yet gladly I

With thee would live, with thee would die.