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THE 
 
 ODES OF HORACE 
 
 Cnnislntcu into (fiiglislj Brrse 
 
 WITH A LIFE AND NOTES 
 
 THEODORE MARTIN 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN W. PARKER AND SON, WEST STRAND 
 
 MDCCCLX. 
 
^ 
 
 
 What practice, howsoe'er expert, 
 
 In filling- aptest words to thing's; 
 
 Or voice, the richest-toned that sinus 
 
 Hath power to give lliee as thou wert? 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 'Z~3f3Z3 
 
 LEIl'ZIG PRINTED BY K. G. TEUP.iNKK. 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 A* 
 
Horace is Iris own biographer. All the material facts of 
 his personal history are to be gathered from allusions 
 scattered throughout his poems. A memoir, attributed to 
 Suetonius, of somewhat doubtful authenticity, furnishes 
 a few additional details, but none of moment, either as to 
 his character or career. 
 
 Quintus Horatius Flaccus was born vi. Id. Dec. a.u.c. 
 689 (Dec. 8, b.c. 65)/, during the consulship of L. Aure- 
 lius Cotta and L. Manlius Torquatus. His father was a 
 freedman, and it was long considered that he had been 
 a slave of some member of the great family of the Ho- 
 ratii , whose name , in accordance with a common usage, 
 he had assumed. But this theory has latterly given 
 place to the suggestion, based upon inscriptions, that 
 he was a freedman of the town of Venusia, the modern 
 Venosa, the inhabitants of Avhich belonged to the Hora- 
 tian tribe. The question is, however, of no importance in 
 its bearings on the poet's life. The elder Horace had re- 
 ceived his manumission before his son was born. He had 
 realized a moderate independence in the vocation of co- 
 aclor, a name borne indifferently by the collectors of 
 public revenue, and of money at sales by public auction. 
 To which of these classes he belonged is uncertain, but 
 most probably to the latter. With the fruits of his industry 
 he had purchased a small property near Venusia, upon 
 
VI LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 the banks of the Aufidus, the modern Ofanto , in the midst 
 of the Apennines, upon the doubtful boundaries of Luca- 
 nia and Apulia. Here the poet was born, and in this pic- 
 turesque region of mountain, forest, and stream, the boy 
 became imbued with the love of nature, which distinguish- 
 ed him through life. • 
 
 He describes himself (Ode IV. B. 3) as having lost his 
 way, when a child upon Mount Vultnr, and being found 
 asleep, under a covering of laurel and myrtle leaves, which 
 the wood pigeons had spread to shield this favourite of the 
 gods from snakes and wild animals. The augury of the 
 future poet said to have been drawn from the incident at 
 the time was probably an afterthought of Horace himself, 
 who had not forgotten Anacreon and the bees; but, 
 whatever may be thought of the omen, the picture of 
 the strayed child, asleep with his hands full of spring 
 flowers, is pleasing. In his father's house, and in those 
 of the Apulian peasantry around him, Horace had 
 opportunities of becoming familiar with the simple vir- 
 tues of the poor, — their independence, integrity, chas- 
 tity, and homely Avorth, — which he loved to contrast with 
 the luxury and vice of imperial Rome. Of his mother no 
 mention occurs, directly or indirectly, throughout his 
 poems. This could scarcely have happened, had she not 
 died while he was very young. He appears also to have 
 been an only child. No doubt he had at an early age 
 
 given evidence of superior powers; and to this it may 
 have been in some measure owing , that his father resolved 
 to give him a higher education than could be obtained 
 under a provincial schoolmaster, and, although ill able to 
 afford the expense, took him to Rome when about twelve 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. VII 
 
 years old, and gave him the best education which the ca- 
 pital could supply. Xo money was spared to enable the 
 boy to keep his position among his fellow-scholars of the 
 higher ranks. He was waited on by numerous slaves, as 
 though he were the heir to a considerable fortune. At the 
 same time he was not allowed to feel any shame for his 
 own order, or to aspire to a position which he was un- 
 equal to maintain. His father taught him to look forward 
 to filling some situation akin to that in which he had him- 
 self acquired a competency, and to feel that in any sphere 
 culture and self-respect must command influence, and 
 afford the best guarantee for happiness. Under the stern 
 tutorage of Orbilius Pupillus, a grammarian of high stand- 
 ing, richer in reputation than gold, whose undue exer- 
 cise of the rod the poet has condemned to a bad immor- 
 tality, he learned grammar, and became familiar with 
 the earlier Latin writers, and with Homer. He also ac- 
 quired such other branches of instruction as were usually 
 learned by the sons of Romans of the higher ranks. But, 
 what was of still more importance, during this critical pe- 
 riod of his first introduction to the seductions of the capi- 
 tal, he enjoyed the advantage of his fathers personal su- 
 perintendence, and of a careful moral training. His father 
 went with him to all his classes , and , being himself a man 
 of shrewd observation and natural humour, he gave his 
 son's studies a practical bearing, by directing his atten- 
 tion to the follies and vices of the luxurious and dissolute 
 society around him, and showing their incompatibility with 
 the dictates of reason and common sense. From this ad- 
 mirable father, Horace appears to have gathered many 
 of "the rugged maxims hewn from life", with which his 
 
VIII LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 works abound , and also to have inherited that manly in- 
 dependence for which he was remarkable , and which, 
 while assigning to all ranks their due influence and re- 
 spect, never either overestimates or compromises its own. 
 Under the homely exterior of the Apulian freedman we re- 
 cognise the soul of the gentleman. His influence on his son 
 was manifestly great. In the full maturity of his powers Ho- 
 race penned a tribute to his worth*, in terms, which prove 
 how often and how deeply he had occasion in after-life 
 to be grateful for the bias thus early communicated. His 
 father's character had given a tone and strength to his 
 Own, which in the midst of manifold temptations had kept 
 him true to himself and to his genius. 
 
 At what age Horace lost his father is uncertain. Most 
 probably this event occurred before he left Rome for 
 Athens to complete his education in the Greek literature 
 and philosophy, under native teachers. This he did some 
 time between the age of seventeen and twenty. At Athens 
 he found many young men of the leading Roman families 
 — Bibulus, Messala, the younger Cicero, and others — 
 engaged in the same pursuits with himself. His works 
 prove him to have been no careless student of the clas- 
 sics of Grecian literature , and with a natural enthusiasm 
 he made his first poetical essays in their flexible and noble 
 language. His usual good sense, however, soon caused him 
 to abandon the hopeless task of emulating the Greek wri- 
 ters on their own ground, and he directed his efforts to trans- 
 fusing into his own language some of the grace and me- 
 lody of these masters of song. In the political lull between 
 
 * For a translation of the passage in the Sixth Satire of the 
 First Book here referred to, see note, infra, p. 241. 
 
LIFE OP HORACE. IX 
 
 the battle of Pharsalia, a.u.c. 706 (b. c. 48), and the death 
 of Julius Caesar, a.u.c. 710 (b.c. 44), Horace was enabled 
 to devote himself without interruption to the tranquil pur- 
 suits of the scholar. But when after the latter event Bru- 
 tus came to Athens , and the patrician youth of Rome, 
 fired with zeal for the cause of republican liberty, joined 
 his standard, Horace, infected by the general enthusiasm, 
 accepted a military command in the army which was 
 destined to encounter the legions of Anthony and Octavius. 
 His rank was that of tribune, a position of so much impor- 
 tance, that he must have been indebted for it either to 
 the personal friendship of Brutus , or to an extraordinary 
 dearth of officers , as he was not only without experience 
 or birth to recommend him, but possessed no particular 
 aptitude, physical or moral, for a military life. His ap- 
 pointment excited jealousy among his brother officers, 
 who considered that the command of a Roman legion 
 should have been reserved for men of nobler blood ; and 
 here probably he first came into direct collision with the 
 aristocratic prejudices which the training of his father had 
 taught him to defy, and which, at a subsequent period, 
 grudged to the freerlman's son the friendship of the emperor 
 and of Maecenas. At the same time he had manifestly a 
 strong party of friends, who had learned to appreciate his 
 genius and attractive qualities. It is certain that he se- 
 cured the esteem of his commanders, and bore an active 
 part iu the perils and difficulties of the campaign , which 
 terminated in the total defeat of the republican party at 
 Pliilippi, A.u.c. 712 (b.c. 42). A playful allusion by him- 
 self to the events of that disastrous field (Odes, II. vii. 9 
 el seq) has been turned by many of his commentators into 
 
LIFE OF nORACK. 
 
 an admission of his own cowardice. This is absurd. Such 
 a confession is the very last which any man , least of all 
 a Roman, would make. Addressing his friend Pompeius 
 Varius , Horace says , 
 
 "With thee I shared Philippi's headlong' flight, 
 My shield behind me left, which was not well, 
 When all that brave array was broke, and fell 
 
 In the vile dust full many a towering- wight." 
 
 That Archilochus and Alcaeus ran away on the field of 
 battle, leaving their shields behind them, may or may 
 not be true ; but , however anxious to rank with them as 
 poets, Horace was not likely to carry the parallel into de- 
 tails disgraceful to his manhood. An allusion , like the 
 above, to the loss of his shield could only have been drop- 
 ped by a man who felt that he had done his duty, and 
 that it was known he had done it. The lines may thus 
 be safely regarded, according to the views of Lessing and 
 others , as a not ungraceful compliment to his friend, who 
 continued the struggle against the triumvirate with the 
 party who threw themselves into the fleet of Sextus Pom- 
 peius. This interpretation is confirmed by the language 
 of the next verse, where, in the same spirit, he applies 
 the epithet "paventem" to himself. 
 
 "But me, poor trembler, swift Mercurius bore, 
 Wrapp'd in a cloud through all the hostile din, 
 While war's tumultuous eddies, closing in, 
 
 Swept thee away into the strife once more." 
 
 It was no discredit to Horace to have despaired of a cause 
 which its leaders had given up. After the suicide of Bm 
 tus and Cassius the continuance of the contest was hope- 
 less; and Horace may in his short military career have 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XI 
 
 seen, in the jealousy and selfish ambition of many of his 
 party, enough to make him suspicious of success, even if 
 that had been attainable. Republicans who sneered at the 
 freedman's son were not likely to found any system of 
 liberty worthy of the name. 
 
 On his way back to Italy, Horace narrowly escaped ship 
 wreck off Cape Palinurus, on the coast of Sicily, an inci- 
 dent to which several allusions will be found in his Odes ; * 
 and he reached home, only to find his paternal acres con- 
 fiscated. His life was spared, but nothing was left him to 
 sustain it but his pen and his good spirits. He had to write 
 for bread ; — Paupertas impulit audax ut versus facerem 
 (Epist. II. ii. 51) — and in so doing he appears to have 
 acquired not only considerable repute, but also sufficient 
 means to purchase the place of scribe in the Quaestor's 
 office, a sort of sinecure Clerkship of the Treasury, which 
 he continued to hold for many years, if not, indeed, 
 to the close of his life. It was upon his return to Rome 
 that he made the acquaintance of Virgil and Varius , who 
 were already famous , and to them he was indebted for 
 his introduction to Maecenas. The particulars of his first 
 interview with his patron he has himself recorded (Sal. I. 
 vi. 55 et seq.). It is a curious circumstance in the history 
 of a friendship , among the closest and most affectionate 
 on record, that nine months elapsed after their meeting, 
 before Maecenas again summoned the poet to his house, 
 and enrolled him in the list of his intimate friends. This 
 
 * It is quite possible, that this incident may have occurred, 
 when Horace was on his way to Greece, or on some subsequent 
 occasion, when he was going for health or pleasure to Vclia or 
 Tarentum. There is no conclusive evidence as to the date. 
 
XII LIFE OF HOKACE. 
 
 event took place in the third year after the battle of Phi- 
 lippi; and as the only claim of Horace, the man of humble 
 origin and the retainer of a defeated party, to the notice 
 of the minister of Augustus must have been his literary 
 reputation, it is obvious that even at this early period he 
 had established his position among the wits and men of 
 letters in the capital. The acquaintance rapidly ripened 
 into mutual esteem. It secured the position of the poet 
 in society, and the generosity of the statesman placed 
 him above the anxieties of a literary life. Throughout the 
 intimate intercourse of thirty years which ensued there 
 was no trace of condescension on the one hand, nor of 
 servility on the other. Maecenas gave the poet a place 
 next his heart. He must have respected the man who ne- 
 ver used his influence to obtain those favours which were 
 within the disposal of the emperor's minister, who cherish- 
 ed an honest pride in his own station, and who could 
 be grateful without being obsequious. Horace is never 
 weary of acknowledging how much he owes to his friend. 
 When he praises him, it is without flattery. When he 
 soothes his anxieties, or calms his fears, the words glow 
 with unmistakeable sincerity. When he resists his pa- 
 tron's wishes , he is firm without being ungracious. When 
 he sports with his foibles, he is familiar without the 
 slightest shade of impertinence. 
 
 By Maecenas Horace was introduced to Octavius , most 
 probably soon after the period just referred to. In a.u.c. 
 717, a year after Horace had been admitted into the circle 
 of his friends, Maecenas went to Brundusium, charged 
 by Octavius to negotiate a treaty with Marcus Antonius. 
 On this journey he was accompanied by Horace, who has 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XIII 
 
 left a graphic record of its incidents (Sat. I. v.) It is pro- 
 bable that on this occasion or about this time the poet 
 was brought to the notice of the future emperor. Between 
 the time of his return from this journey and the year 722, 
 Horace, who had in the meantime given to the world 
 many of his poems, including the ten Satires of the first 
 book, received from Maecenas the gift of the Sabine farm, 
 which at once afforded him a competency and all the plea- 
 sures of a country life. The gift was a slight one for 
 Maecenas to bestow, but he no doubt made it as the 
 fittest and most welcome which he could offer to his 
 friend. It made Horace happy. It gave him leisure and 
 amusement, and opportunities for that calm intercourse 
 with nature which he "needed for his spirit's health." 
 Never was a gift better bestowed or better requited. It 
 at once prompted much of that poetry which has made 
 Maecenas famous, and has afforded ever neAV delight to 
 successive generations. The Sabine farm was situated 
 in the valley of Ustica about twelve miles from Tibur (Ti- 
 voli), and, among its other charms, possessed the valuable 
 attraction for Horace, that it was within an easy distance 
 of Home. When his spirits wanted the stimulus of society 
 or the bustle of the capital, which they often did, his 
 ambling mule could speedily convey him thither; and 
 when jaded on the other hand by 
 
 The noise, and strife, and questions wearisome, 
 And the vain splendours of imperial Rome, 
 
 lie could by the same easy means of transport, in a few 
 hours bury himself among the hills, and there, under the 
 shadow of his favourite Lucretilis, or by the banks of the 
 Digentia, either stretch himself to dream upon the grass, 
 
XIV LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 lulled by the murmurs of the stream, or look after the cul- 
 ture of his fields , and fancy himself a farmer. The site 
 of this farm has been pretty accurately ascertained , and 
 it is at the present day a favourite resort of travellers, 
 especially of Englishmen, who visit it in such numbers, 
 and trace its features with so much enthusiasm, that the 
 resident peasantry, "who cannot conceive of any other 
 source of interest in one so long* dead and unsainted, 
 than that of co-patriotism or consanguinity ," believe Ho- 
 race to have been an Englishman*. The property was 
 of moderate size, and produced corn, olives, and wine, 
 but was not highly cultivated. Here Horace spent a con- 
 siderable part of every year. The Sabine farm was very 
 retired, being about four miles from Varia (Vico Varo), 
 the nearest town, well covered with timber, and traversed 
 by a small but sparkling stream. It gave employment to 
 five families of free coloni, who were under the superin- 
 tendence of a bailiff; and, besides these, eight slaves 
 were attached to the poet's establishment. With his inex- 
 pensive habits this little property was sufficient for all his 
 wants. He describes himself, as Satis beaius unicis Sabwis, 
 
 With what I have completely blest, 
 
 My happy little Sabine nest. 
 Odes B. II. 18. Here he could entertain a stray friend 
 from town, — his patron Maecenas , upon occasion, — 
 
 and the delights of this agreeable retreat and the charm 
 of the poet's society, were doubtless more than a compen- 
 sation for the plain fare or the thin home-grown wine, 
 Vile Sabiniun, with which its resources alone enabled him 
 to regale them. 
 
 * See Letter by Mr. Dennis. Milman's Horaee, London 1849. p. 109. 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XV 
 
 The life of Horace from the time of his intimacy with 
 .Maecenas appears to have been one of comparative ease 
 and of great social enjoyment. Augustus soon admitted him 
 to his favour, and, according to the memoir by Suetonius, 
 ultimately sought to attach him to his person in the capa- 
 city of secretary. This offer Horace was prudent and firm 
 enough to decline ; while at the same time he had the tact 
 not to offend the master of the world by his refusal. To 
 the close of his life his favour at court continued without 
 a cloud. Augustus not only liked the man, but entertained 
 a profound admiration for the poet. Believing in the im- 
 mortality of his writings, it was natural the emperor should 
 cultivate the good will and seek to secure the "deathless 
 meed" of his favourite's song. That Horace had fought 
 with Brutus against him did not operate to his prejudice. 
 To have espoused the cause, and enjoyed the confidence 
 of one whose nobility of purpose his adversaries never 
 scrupled to acknowledge, formed, indeed, in itself a claim 
 upon his successful rival's esteem. Horace was no rene- 
 gade ; he was not ashamed of the past, and Maecenas and 
 Augustus were just the men to respect him for his inde- 
 pendence, and to like him the better for it. They could 
 appreciate his superiority to the herd of parasites and time- 
 servers around them; and like all the greatest actors on 
 the political stage, they Avere above the petty rancours of 
 party jealousy , or the desire to enforce a renunciation of 
 convictions opposite to their own. Doubtless it was by 
 never stooping to them unduly that Horace secured their 
 esteem, and maintained himself upon a footing of equa- 
 lity with them, as nearly as the difference of rank would 
 allow. There is no reason to suspect Horace, in the praises 
 
XVI JAFV OF HORACE. 
 
 which his country enjoyed under the masterly administra- 
 tion of Augustus, with the disquietude and strife under, 
 which it had languished for so many years. The days of 
 a republic had gone by, and an enlightened despotism 
 must have been welcomed by a country shaken by a long 
 period of civil commotion, and sick of seeing itself played 
 for as the stake of reckless and ambitious men. Ho was 
 near enough to the councils of the world's master to un- 
 derstand his motives and to appreciate his policy; and his 
 intimate personalintercourse with both Augustus and Mae- 
 cenas no doubt enabled him to do fuller justice both to 
 their intentions and their capacity, than was possible per- 
 haps to any other man of his time. 
 
 The envy which his intimacy with these two foremost 
 men of all the world for a time excited in Roman society 
 by degrees gave way, as years advanced, and the causes 
 of their esteem came to be better understood. Their favour 
 did not spoil him. He was ever the same kindly, urbane, 
 and simple man of letters he had originally been, never 
 presuming upon his position, nor looking superciliously on 
 others less favoured than himself. At all times generous 
 and genial, years only mellowed his wisdom, and gave 
 a finer polish to his verse. The unaffected sincerity of his 
 nature, and the rich vein of his genius, made him courted 
 by the rich and noble. (^Odes , II. xviii. 9 ft seq.) He 
 mixed on easy terms with the choicest society of Rome, 
 a nd what must that society have been, which included 
 Virgil, Varius, Plotius , Tibullus , Pollio , and a host of 
 others, who were not only ripe scholars , but had borne 
 and were bearing a. leading part in the great actions and 
 events of that memorable epoch? 
 
L1F£ OF HORAl'K. 
 
 XVII 
 
 which he has recorded of Augustus , either of insincerity 
 or sycophancy. He was able to contrast the comparative 
 security of life and property, the absence of political tur- 
 moil, and the development of social ease and happiness. 
 It is to this period that the composition of his principal 
 odes is to be attributed. To these, of all his writings, 
 Horace himself appears to have ascribed the greatest value, 
 and, if we are to read literally the language of the last 
 odes of the Second and Third Books, to have rested upon 
 them his claims to posthumous fame. They were the result 
 of great labour, as he himself indicates: u per osa parvus 
 Carmina fingo" (Odes, IV. ii. 31); and yet they bear pre- 
 eminently the charm of simplicity and ease. He was the 
 first to mould the Latin tongue to the Greek lyric mea- 
 sures ; and his success in this difficult task may be estimated 
 from the fact, that as he was the first so was he the great- 
 est of the Roman lyrists. It has become the fashion with 
 certain grammarians of late years to decry his versifica- 
 tion as defective. It may be so, but we would rather fol- 
 low the opinions of his contemporaries and countrymen 
 on this point. Ovid expressed a different opinion in the 
 well known lines : 
 
 El tenuit nostras numerosus Hur alius aures, /0 . 
 
 Bum fecit Ausunia carmina cull a lyra. IV. Tristia-19. 
 Oft on Horatius' tuneful strains I've hung, 
 Whilst to his Bweet Ausonian lyre lie sung. 
 
 Quinctilian's criticism upon the Odes can scarcely be 
 improved: "Lyricoruin Horatius fere solus legi dignus. 
 Nam et insurgit aliquando , et plenus est jucunditatis et 
 gratise, et variis figuris , et verbis felicissime audax." In 
 tins airy and playful grace, in happy epithets, in variety 
 
XVIlf LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 of imagery, and exquisite felicity of expression, the Odes 
 are still unsurpassed among the writings of any period 
 or language. It is no doubt true that only in a few instan- 
 ces do they rise to grandeur of thought, or are marked by 
 a high strain of emotion or of imaginative expression ; but if 
 they want for the most part the inspiration of a great motive, 
 or the fervour and resonance of the finest lyrics of Greece, 
 they possess in perfection the power of painting an image 
 or expressing a thought in the fewest and fittest words, 
 combined with a melody of cadence always delightful. It 
 is these qualities and a prevailing vein of genial and sober 
 wisdom, which imbue them with a charm quite peculiar, 
 and have given them a hold upon the minds of educated 
 men, which no change of taste has shaken. Their beauty 
 of expression is indeed apt to blind the reader upon oc- 
 casion to the poverty of idea, and essentially prosaic turn 
 of many of the Odes. Strip them of their dress, indeed, 
 and their charm vanishes. That even the best are infe- 
 rior to his Greek models is not to be wondered at. Even 
 although Horace had possessed the genius of Pindar or 
 Sappho, it is doubtful whether, writing as he did in an ar- 
 tificial language, which he was compelled to make more 
 artificial by the adoption of Greek forms and idioms, he 
 conld have found an adequate utterance for his inspiration. 
 But to neither of these was his genius akin; and that good 
 sense, which is his great characteristic, withheld him from 
 ever either soaring too high or attempting to sustain his 
 flight too long. His power of passion is limited , and his 
 strokes of pathos are few and slight. His deepest tones 
 are struck, when the decay of morals, and the selfish 
 passions of faction inspire him with indignation, or sadden 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XIX 
 
 him into despair. On tliese subjects lie felt intensely, and 
 wrote with all the energy and force of strong conviction 
 and passionate feeling. The individual man then becomes 
 merged in the greatness of the theme, but in general he 
 plays with his subject like the skilful artist, rather than 
 the poet, who seeks in lyrical verse the natural vent 
 for his emotions. Rarely indeed do we lose sight of the 
 poet himself in these odes. This quality, while it is fatal 
 to lyric poetry of the highest class, helps, however, to 
 heighten the charm of the majority of them, especially 
 those which are devoted to his friends, or which breathe 
 the delight with which the contact with the ever fresh 
 beauties of natural scenery inspired him. Into these 
 he throws his whole heart , and in them we feel the fasci- 
 nation which made him beloved by those who came within 
 the circle of his personal influence, and which makes him 
 as it were the well known and intimate friend of all to 
 whom his writings are a familiar study. 
 
 Horace was not and could not have been a national 
 poet. He wrote only for cultivated men, and under the 
 shadow of a court. Beyond a* very narrow circle his works 
 could not have been read. The very language in which 
 he wrote must have been unintelligible to the people, and 
 he had none of those popular sympathies which inspire 
 the lyrics of Burns or Beranger. The Roman populace of 
 his time was perhaps as little likely to command his re- 
 spect as any which the world has ever seen; and there 
 was no people, in the sense in which we understand the 
 word, to appeal to. And yet Horace has many points in 
 common with Burns. "A man's a man for a' that," in the 
 whole vein of its sentiment is thoroughly Horatian. In their 
 
XX LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 large and genial views of life they are closely akin; but 
 the fiery glow of the peasant poet is subdued to a temper- 
 ate heat in the gentler and physically less energetic nature 
 of Horace. 
 
 In his amatory verses the same distinction is visible. 
 Horace writes much about love; but he is never thoroughly 
 in love. None of his erotic poems are vivified by those 
 gushes of emotion which animate the love poetry of the 
 poets we have named and of other modern song writers. 
 Never indeed was love less ideal or intense in a poet of 
 unquestionable power. Horace is not insensible to femi- 
 nine attractiveness. He had too much taste for that. In- 
 deed no writer hits off with greater neatness the portrait 
 of a beauty, or conjures up more skilfully before his reader 
 an image of seductive grace. But his tone is more that 
 of a pleased spectator than of one who has loved deeply. 
 Even in what may be assumed to be his earliest poems, the 
 fire of genuine passion is wanting. Horace's ardour seems 
 never to have risen above the transient flush of desire. 
 At no period of his life, so far as can be inferred from 
 his writings, was he a man to suffer from 
 
 the cruel madness of love , 
 The honey of poison flowers, and all the measureless ill. 
 
 He was as much a stranger to the headlong passion of the 
 sensualist, as to the trembling reverence of the devotee. 
 Of all that wide realm of deep emotion and imaginative 
 tenderness , of which occasional traces are to be found in 
 the literature of antiquity, and with which modern poetry 
 from Dante to Tennyson is familiar, no hint is to be found 
 in the Odes of Horace. Parabilem amo Venercm facilemquc, 
 is the Alpha and Omega of his personal creed. In his 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XXI 
 
 view the favouring smiles of the fairest face were not worth 
 the pain its owner's caprices could inflict. Woman, as he 
 knew her, was apt to be capricious. He had suffered from 
 the fickleness of more than one mistress, but he was too 
 honest not to feel, that they had probably only forestalled 
 him in inconstancy. Doubtless, he had "sighed and look- 
 ed, sighed and looked " at many a pair of fine eyes in 
 vain , and found himself recalling to his fancy more often 
 than philosopher should , a rosy underlip , or "the tresses 
 of Neaera's hair;" but if they slipped from his grasp, 
 the pang, we may be tolerably sure, was transient. 
 
 From these he escaped heart-free , with the least little touch 
 
 of spleen. 
 
 He seems to have known by experience just enough of 
 the tender passion, to write pretty verses about it, and 
 to rally, not unsympathetically, such of his friends, as had 
 not escaped so lightly from its flame. The attempt to make 
 out the Lydias and Lalages , the Lyces and Phrynes of 
 his Odes as real objects of attachment is one of the many 
 follies in which his commentators have wasted much dreary 
 labour. Like Beranger, Horace might, no doubt, have 
 sung of himself in his youth, — 
 
 J'avais a vingt ans une folle maitresse, 
 Des francs amis, et l'amour de chansons — 
 
 The bona Cinara of his Odes and Satires was no ideal 
 personage; and it may fairly be assumed that his many 
 agreeable qualities had not been without their influence 
 upon other beauties equally susceptible, if not equally 
 generous. Militavit non sine gloria. And even when he 
 could count eight lustres, despite his own protest {Ode 
 II, 4) , his senses were probably not dead to the attractions 
 
XXII LIFE OP HORACE. 
 
 of a fine ancle, or a pretty face, or to the fascination of 
 a sweet smile, a musical voice, a pleasant wit, an agreeable 
 temper, or graceful habits. But his passions were too well 
 controlled, and his love of ease too strong, to admit of 
 the countless flirtations implied in the supposition that Gly- 
 cera, Myrtale, and a score of others, were actual favou- 
 rites of the bard. The Horace of the Satires and Epistles, 
 the man Horace as he there lives for us, must be forgotten, 
 before we can adopt such a conclusion. To sing of 
 beauty has always been the poet's privilege and delight; 
 and to record the lover's pains an easy and popular theme. 
 Horace, the wit and friend of wits, fell naturally into this 
 genial strain, and sang of love and beauty according to 
 his fashion. Very airy and playful and pleasant is that 
 fashion, and, for his time, in the main comparatively pure 
 and chaste ; but we seek in vain for the tenderness , the 
 negation of self, and the pathos , which are the soul of all 
 true love poetry. "His love ditties ," it has been well said, 
 "are, as it were, like flowers, beautiful in form, and rich 
 in hues , but without the scent that breathes to the heart." 
 It is certain that many of them are merely imitations of 
 Greek originals ; pretty cameos cut after the antique. 
 
 Horace's Satires and Epistles are less read, yet they are 
 perhaps intrinsically more valuable than his lyric poetry. 
 They are of very various merit, written at different periods 
 of his life, and, although the order of their composition 
 may be difficult to define with certainty, much may be 
 inferred, even from the internal evidence of style and 
 subject, as to the development of the poet's genius. As 
 reflecting "the age and body of the time," they possess the 
 highest historical value. Through them the modern scholar 
 
L'IFE OF HORACE. \\U\ 
 
 is able to form a clearer idea in all probability of the state 
 of society in Rome in the Augustan age than of any 
 other phase of social development in the history of nations. 
 Mingling, as he did, freely with men of all ranks and 
 passions, and himself untouched by the ambition of wealth 
 or influence which absorbed them in the struggle of society, 
 he enjoyed the best opportunities for observation, and 
 he used them diligently. Horace's observation of charac- 
 ter is subtle and exact, his knowledge of the heart is pro- 
 found, his power of graphic delineation great. A genial 
 humour plays over his verses, and a kindly wisdom digni- 
 ties them. Xever were the maxims of social prudence and 
 practical good sense inculcated in so pleasing a form as 
 in the Epistles. The vein of his satire is delicate yet racy; 
 he keeps the intellect on the alert, and amuses the fancy, 
 while he rarely offends by indelicacy, or outrages by 
 coarseness. For fierceness of invective, or loftiness of 
 moral tone, he is inferior to Juvenal; but the vices of his 
 time were less calculated to provoke the "sseva indignatio 1 ' 
 of the satirist of a more recent date. He deals rather with 
 the weakness and follies, than with the vices or crimes of 
 mankind, and his appeals are directed to their judgment 
 and practical sense rather than to their conscience. As a 
 living and brilliant commentary on life, as a storehouse 
 of maxims of practical wisdom, couched in language the 
 most apt and concise, as- a picture of men and manners, 
 which will be always fresh and always true, because they 
 were true once, and because human nature will always 
 reproduce itself under analogous circumstances, his Safh'es, 
 and still more Lis Epistles, will have a permanent value 
 for mankind. In these, as in his Odes, he inculcates 
 
XXIV LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 what is fitting and decorous, and tends most to tran- 
 quillity of mind and body, rather than the severe vir- 
 tues of a high standard of moral purity. To live at peace 
 with the world , to shun the extremes of avarice , luxury, 
 and ambition , to outrage none of the laws of nature , to 
 enjoy life wisely, and not to load it with cares which the 
 lapse of a few brief years will demonstrate to be foolish- 
 ness, is very nearly the sum of his philosophy. Of reli- 
 gion, as we understand it, he had little. Although himself 
 little of a practical worshipper — parens deorum cultor et 
 infrequens — he respected the sincerity of others in their 
 belief in the old gods. But in common with the more vi- 
 gorous intellects of the time , he had outgrown the effete 
 creed of his countrymen. He was content to use it for poe- 
 tical purposes, but he could not accept as matter of belief 
 the mythology, about which the forms of the contem- 
 porary worship still clustered. 
 
 At no time very robust, Horace's health appears to have 
 declined for some years before his death. He was doomed 
 to see some of his most valued friends drop into the grave 
 before him. This to him, who gave to friendship the ar- 
 dour which other men give to love, was the severest wound 
 that time could bring. "The shocks of Chance , the blows 
 of Death" smote him heavily; and the failure of youth, 
 and spirits, and health, in the inevitable decay of nature, 
 saddened the thoughtful poet in his solitude, and tinged 
 the gayest society with melancholy. The loss of friends, 
 the brothers of his soul, of Virgil, Quinctilius , Tibullus, 
 and others, and ultimately of Maecenas, without that hope 
 of reunion which springs from the cheering faith which 
 was soon afterwards to be revealed to the world , must 
 

 LTFE OF HORACE. XXV 
 
 have by degrees stripped life of most of its charms. Sin- 
 gula cle nobis anni praedantur euntes (Epist. II. ii. 55) is a 
 cheerless reflection to all, but chiefly to him, who has no 
 assured hope beyond the present time. Maecenas's health 
 was a source of deep anxiety to him ; and one of the most 
 exquisite Odes (B. II. 17), addressed to that valued 
 friend, in answer to some outburst of despondency, while 
 it expresses the depth of the poet's regard, bears in it the 
 tone of a man somewhat weary of the world : — 
 
 "Ah! if untimely fate should snatch thee hence, 
 
 Thee, of my soul a part, 
 Why should I linger on, with deaden'd sense, 
 
 And ever-aching heart, 
 A worthless fragment of a fallen shrine? 
 No, no! One day beholds thy death and mine! 
 
 "Think not that I have sworn a bootless oath ! 
 
 Yes , we shall go , shall go , 
 Hand link'd in hand, whene'er thou leadest, both 
 
 The last sad road below!" 
 
 The prophecy seems to have been realized almost to 
 the letter. The same year (a.u.c. 746, b.c. 8) witnessed 
 the death of both Horace and Maecenas. The latter died 
 in the middle of the year, bequeathing his friend, in al- 
 most his last words , to the care of Augustus : Horalii Flacci, 
 ut met, esto memor. On the 27th of November, when he 
 was on the eve of completing his fifty-seventh year, Ho- 
 race himself died, of an illness so sharp and sudden, that 
 he was unable to make his will in writing. He declared 
 it verbally before witnesses, leaving to Augustus the little 
 which he possessed. He was buried on the Esquiline Hill, 
 near his patron and friend Msecenas. 
 
XXVI LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 The fame of Horace was at once established. Even in 
 the days of Juvenal he shared with Virgil the doubtful 
 honour of being a schoolbook (Juvenal, Sat. vii. 226). That 
 honour he still enjoys; but it is only by minds matured 
 by experience and reflection that Horace can be thoroughly 
 appreciated. To them the depth of his observation , and 
 the reach of his good sense are made daily more apparent; 
 and the verses, which charmed their fancy or delighted 
 their ear in youth, became the counsellors of their man- 
 hood, or the mirror which focalizes for their old age the 
 gathered wisdom of a lifetime. No writer is so often quo- 
 ted, and simply because the thoughts of none are more 
 pertinent to men's ''business and bosoms" in the concerns 
 of every-day life, amid the jostle of a croAvded and artifi- 
 cial state of society; and because the glimpses of nature, 
 in which his writings abound, come with the freshness 
 of truth, alike to the jaded dweller in cities, and to those 
 who can test them day by day in the presence of nature 
 herself. 
 
 There are no authentic busts or medallions of Horace, 
 and his descriptions of himself are vague. He was short 
 in stature; his eyes and hair were dark, but the latter was 
 early silvered with gray. He suffered at one time from an 
 affection of the eyes, and seems to have been by no means 
 robust in constitution. His habits were temperate and fru- 
 gal, as a rule, although he was far from insensible to the 
 charms of a good table and good wine, heightening and 
 heightened by the zest of good company. But he seems 
 to have had neither the stomach nor the taste for habitual 
 indulgence in the pleasures of the table. In youth he was 
 hasty and choleric, but placable; and to the last he pro- 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XXVII 
 
 bably shared in some degree the irritability which he 
 ascribes to his class. At the same time, if his writings be 
 any index to his mind, his temper was habitually sweet 
 and well under control. Like most playful men, a tinge of 
 melancholy coloured his life, if that is to be called melan- 
 choly which more properly is only that feeling of the in- 
 completeness and insufficiency of life for the desires of 
 the soul, which with all thoughtful men must be habitual. 
 Latterly he became corpulent, and sensitive to the se- 
 verity of the seasons , and sought at Baise and Tivoli the 
 refreshment or shelter which his mountain retreat had 
 ceased to yield to his delicate frame. 
 
 The chronology of the poems of Horace has been the 
 source of much critical controversy. The earlier labours 
 of Bentley, Masson, Dacier, and Sanadon have been fol- 
 lowed up in modern times by those of Passow, Orelli, Wal- 
 ckenaer, Weber, Grotefend, and Stallbaum abroad, and of 
 Tate and Milman at home. The subject is of importance 
 in its bearings on the poet's biography; and the general 
 result of their investigations may be stated as follows. 
 The Satires and most of the Epodes were first in the order of 
 composition, having been written between the years 713 and 
 725, after the return of Horace to Rome, and before the close 
 of the civil wars consequent upon the defeat of Antony 
 and his party. The two first books of Odes appeared 
 between this period and the year 730. Then followed the 
 first book of Ejnstles. The third book of Odes appears to 
 have been composed about the year 735 , the Carmen Secn- 
 lare in 737, and the fourth book of Odes between 737 and 
 741. The second book of Epistles may be assigned to 
 the period between 741 and 746; and to the same period 
 
XXVIII LUTE OP HORACE. 
 
 may be ascribed the composition of the Epistle to the 
 Pisos. 
 
 In the following translations tbe Odes have been re- 
 tained in the order in which they appear in the common 
 editions, without any attempt at chronological arrangement. 
 Any change might perplex the ordinary reader; and for 
 historical or other purposes no student will prosecute his 
 researches in a translation. 
 
 The object of the translator has been to convey to the 
 
 mind of an English reader the impression, as nearly as 
 may be, Avhich the originals produce upon his own. The 
 difficulties of such a task are endless. "It is impossible," 
 says Shelley, himself one of the most successful of trans- 
 lators, "to represent in another language the melody of 
 the versification ; even the volatile strength and delicacy 
 of the ideas escape in the crucible of translation, and the 
 reader is surprised to find a caput rnortuum." This is true 
 in the case even of languages which bear an affinity to our 
 own, but especially true, where Greek or Latin poetry are 
 concerned. No competent translator will satisfy himself; 
 still less can he expect to satisfy others. It will always 
 be easy for the critic to demonstrate that Horace is un 
 translateable. In a strict sense, this is the case with all 
 poetry, especially lyrical poetry; and no one is likely to 
 be so thoroughly convinced of this, as he who has per- 
 severed to the end in an attempt to translate the Odes of 
 Horace. Still, what has been will be. The attempt, ofteu 
 made, will be as often renewed. Bulce pericalum est. The 
 
LIFE OF HORACE. XXIX 
 
 very difficulty of the task makes it attractive. Lovers of the 
 Venusian bard will go on from time to time striving to 
 transfuse the charm of his manner into English measures ; 
 and the noticeable versions of Mr. H. Gr. Eobinson, Mr. 
 Whyte Melville, Mr. F. W. Newman, and Lord Kavens- 
 worth, all published within the last few years, shew that 
 the production of a Horace to meet the modern views of 
 what a translation Ought to be is still a prevailing object 
 of ambition amongst English scholars. 
 
 The present version has grown up imperceptibly during 
 many years, having been nearly finished, before the idea 
 of a complete version occurred to the translator as a thing 
 to be accomplished. The form of verse into which each 
 Ode has been cast has been generally selected with a view 
 to what might best reflect its prevailing tone. It has not 
 always been possible, however, to follow this indication, 
 where, as frequently happens, either the names of per- 
 sons or places, often most intractable, but always impor- 
 tant, must have been sacrificed, or a measure selected 
 into which these could be interwoven. To be as literal 
 and close as the difference between the languages would 
 admit, has been the aim throughout. But there are occa- 
 sions, as every scholar knows, where to be faithful to the 
 letter is to be most unfaithful to the spirit of an author; 
 and where to be close is to be hopelessly prosaic. Phrases, 
 nay single words and names, full of poetical suggestive- 
 ness in one language, are bald, if not absolutely without 
 significance in another. Besides, even under the most 
 skilful hands, a thought or sentiment must at times be 
 expanded or condensed to meet the necessity of the stanza. 
 The triumph of the translator is, where this is effected 
 
XXX LIFE OF HORACE. 
 
 without losing any of the significance, or clashing with 
 the pervading sentiment of the Original. Again, a point 
 of great difficulty is the treatment of the lighter odes — 
 mere vers de societe, invested by the language for us with 
 a certain stateliness, but which were probably regarded 
 with a very different feeling by the small contempo- 
 rary circle to which they were addressed. To catch the 
 tone of these, to he light without being flippant, to be 
 playful without being vulgar, demands a delicacy of 
 touch, which it is given to few to acquire even in original 
 composition, and which in translation is all but unattain- 
 able. 
 
 In a few instances where, for obvious reasons, a literal 
 reproduction of the original was not desirable, as in the 25th 
 Ode of the First, and the 10th Ode of the Fourth Books, 
 and in occasional passages elsewhere, the translator has 
 not hesitated to make such deviations from the text, as are 
 required by the purer morals of the present day. For the 
 same reason the 8th and 12th Epodes have been alto- 
 gether omitted. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 27, last line but one, for ' af ' read 'of.' 
 „ 50, first line, for ' ask ' read * asks.' 
 
 „ 56, sixteenth line, for * brothers, blood ' read ' brothers' blood. 
 „ 92, first line, for ' bare ' read ' Care.' 
 
 ,, 214, fifth line, for ' Like him whose joys, Lycambes ! dash'd' 
 read ' Like him, whose joys Lycambes dash'd.' 
 
BOOK I. 
 
ODE I. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Ode I. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Maecenas, sprung from monarchs old, 
 Who dost my fortunes still uphold , 
 My heart's best friend, some men there are, 
 Who joy to gather with the car 
 Olympic dust; and whom the goal 
 By hot wheels clear'd, that round it roll, 
 And noble palm , can elevate 
 To gods, the lords of earth's estate. 
 
 One feels his breast with rapture throb , 
 If the Quiritians' fickle mob 
 Raise him, 'mid brawl and civic roar, 
 To honours doubled o'er and o'er; 
 Another if he store , and fill 
 His private granaries, until 
 Their teeming area contains 
 The harvests of all Lybia's plains. 
 
 Him that delights afield to moil, 
 Tilling his old paternal soil , 
 You ne'er could tempt, by all the pelf 
 Of golden Attalus himself, 
 With Cyprian keel in fear to sweep 
 The storm-yvext Myrtoan deep. 
 
ODE I. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 The merchant, with affright aghast, 
 When Africus with furious blast 
 Lashes the Icarian waves to foam, 
 Extols his quiet inland home;. 
 But, safe in harbour, straight equips 
 Anew his tempest-batter'd ships, 
 By no disasters to be taught 
 Contentment with a lowly lot. 
 
 And there be some, we know, are fain 
 Full cups of Massic old to drain, 
 Nor scorn from the unbroken day 
 To snatch an hour, their limbs to lay 
 'Neath leafy arbutus , or dream 
 Beside some lulling fountain's stream. 
 
 The camp makes many a heart beat high, 
 The trumpet's call, the clarion's cry, 
 And all the grim array of war, 
 Which mothers' fearful hearts abhor. 
 
 Regardless of the wife , that weeps 
 At home for him, the huntsman keeps 
 Abroad through cold and tempest drear, 
 If his staunch hounds have track'd the deer, 
 Or by the meshes rent is seen, 
 Where savage Marsian boar hath been. 
 
 Me doth the ivy's wreathed bough, 
 Meet guerdon of the scholar's brow, 
 The compeer make of gods supreme ! 
 Me the dim grove, the murmuring stream, 
 And Nymphs that trip with Fauns along, 
 Dissever from the vulgar throng; 
 
ODE I. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 If nor Euterpe hush her strain, 
 
 Nor Polyhymnia disdain 
 
 To strike for me her Lesbian lyre, 
 
 And fill me with a poet's fire. 
 
 Give me but these , and rank me 'mong 
 
 The sacred bards of lyric song-, 
 
 I'll soar beyond the lists of time, 
 
 And strike the stars with head sublime. 
 
ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS CESAR. 
 
 Ode II. 
 
 TO AUGUSTUS CAESAR. 
 
 Enough, enough of snow and direful hail 
 Hath Jove in anger shower'd upon the land, 
 And launching havoc with his red right hand 
 
 On tower and temple, ma'de the city quail, 
 
 Made all the nations quail, lest Pyrrha's age 
 
 Should come again, with brood of monsters strange, 
 When Proteus drove his ocean -herd to range 
 
 The mountain tops in wondrous pilgrimage. 
 
 The yellow Tiber, with its waves hurl'd back 
 From the Etruscan coast, have Ave beheld, 
 Threaten the monuments of regal eld, 
 
 And Vesta's fane, with universal wrack. 
 
 Rising in ire, to avenge his Ilia's plaint, 
 
 He bursts his bounds, and, stirr'd through all his deeps, 
 O'er his left bank the uxorious river sweeps, 
 
 Though unapproved by Jove, and spurns restraint. 
 
 Thinn'd by their parents' crimes, our youth shall hear 
 How Roman against Roman bared the blade, 
 Which the fierce Persian fitlier low had laid, 
 
 Shall hear, how kin met kin in conflict drear. 
 
 What god shall we, to save the state from doom, 
 Importune ; by what pray'r shall virgins pure 
 Their Vesta's ear so long regardless lure, 
 
 To listen to their quired hymns'? To whom 
 
ODE II. TO AUGUSTUS CESAR. 
 
 Will Jove assign the office and the might 
 To expiate our guilt? Oh to our pray'r, 
 Augur Apollo, here at length repair, 
 
 Veiling in clouds thy shoulders ivory -"white! 
 
 Or, laughing Erycina, round whose head 
 Boy Cupid flits and Mirth on airy wing; 
 Or, on thine outcast sons if thou dost fling 
 
 Some kindly glances, thou, our founder dread, 
 
 Sated, alas! with war's too lengthen'd sport! 
 
 Who joy'st in gleaming helms, and battle's roar. 
 And, foot to foot with foemen dyed in gore, 
 
 The Marsian's flashing eye, and fateful port! 
 
 Or else do thou, sweet Maia's winged child, 
 Doffing the God, descend to earth, and wear 
 The form of youth, Caesar's avenger, there 
 
 AVhile thou abid'st, submitting to be styled! 
 
 Long, long to heav'n be thy return delay'd, 
 
 Long, long may'st thou well pleased beside us stay 
 And no fell air waft thee from earth away 
 
 At our dark crimes indignant and dismay'd! 
 
 Rather lead mighty triumphs here as now, 
 Joy to be call'd our Prince and Father here , 
 Nor let the Median unchastised career 
 
 Where Romans sway, — our leader, Cresar, thou! 
 
ODE III. TO THE SHIP IN WHICH VI If GIL 
 
 Ode III. 
 
 TO THE SHIP IN WHICH VIRGIL WAS ABOUT 
 TO SAIL FOR GREECE. 
 
 May the great goddess-queen of Cyprus isle , 
 
 And those bright cressets^ brothers twin of Helen, 
 And he that rules the winds propitious smile , 
 
 All save mild zephyr in their caverns quelling, 
 Thy course, oh bark, directing so, that thou 
 
 May'st waft in safety to Athene's shore 
 My Virgil, to thy care entrusted now, 
 
 And to its love my soul's dear half restore ! 
 
 In oak or triple brass his breast was niail'd , 
 
 Who first committed to the ruthless deep 
 His fragile skiff, nor inly shrank and quail'd, 
 
 To hear the headlong south wind fiercely sweep , 
 With northern blasts to wrestle and to rave , 
 
 Nor fear'd to face the tristful Hyades, 
 And *the wild tyrant of the Western wave, 
 
 That lifts, or calms at will the restless seas. 
 
 What form of death could daunt his soul , who view'd 
 
 Ocean's dread shapes, nor turn'd his eyes away, 
 Its surging waves, and with disaster strew'd 
 
 Thy fated rocks, Acroceraunia? 
 Vainly hath Jove in wisdom land from land 
 
 By seas dissever'd wild and tempest-toss'd , 
 If vessels bound, despite his high command, 
 
 O'er waters purposed never to be cross'd. 
 
■WAS ABOUT TO SAIL FOR GREECE. 
 
 Presumptuous man, in insolence of soul, 
 
 Sweeps to bis aim through sacrilege and crime; 
 Heaven's fire for us the bold Prometheus stole 
 
 By fraud unhallow'd, in the olden time; 
 Then wasting agues, hectic fevers smote 
 
 The earth, and hosts of newborn terrors spread; 
 And Death, till then forgetful and remote, 
 
 Quicken'd his slow, inevitable tread! 
 
 On wings not given for mortal wearing durst 
 
 Vain Dsedalus to cleave the void of air; 
 Through fateful Acheron Alcides burst: 
 
 Nought is too arduous for man to dare. 
 In our unbounded folly we aspire 
 
 To heaven itself; and such our guilty pride, 
 We will not let great Jove forget his ire , 
 
 Nor lav his vengeful thunderbolts aside. 
 

 10 ODE IV. TO SESTIUS. 
 
 Ode IV. 
 
 TO SESTIUS. 
 
 Now biting Winter fled, sweet spring is come instead, 
 
 And barks long- stranded high and dry put out again from shore ; 
 
 Now the ox forsakes his byre, and the husbandman his fire, 
 And daisy-dappled meadows bloom where winter frosts lay hoar. 
 
 By Cytherea led, while the moon shines overhead, 
 
 The Nymphs and Graces, hand-in-hand, with alternating feet, 
 Shake the ground, while swinking Vulcan strikes the sparkles 
 
 fierce and red 
 From the forges of the Cyclops, dun with smoke and lurid 
 
 heat. 
 
 'Tis the time with myrtle green to bind our glistening locks , 
 Or with flowers , wherein the loosen'd earth herself hath newly 
 
 dress'd, 
 
 And to sacrifice to Faunus in some glade amidst the rocks 
 A yearling lamb, or else a kid, if such delight him best. 
 
 Death comes alike to all — to the monarch's lordly hall, 
 
 Or the hovel of the beggar, and his summons none shall stay. 
 
 Oh Sestius , happy Sestius ! use the moments as they pass ; 
 Far-reaching hopes are not for us, the creatures of a day. 
 
 Full soon shall night enshroud thee in the Manes' phantom crowd, 
 And the bare and narrow mansion of Pluto close thee in; 
 
 And thou shalt not banish care by the ruddy wine-cup there , 
 Nor woo the gentle Lycidas, whom all are mad to win. 
 
ODE V. TO PYF.RHA. 
 
 11 
 
 Ode V. 
 
 TO PYRRHA. 
 
 Say, Pyrrlia, say, what slender boy, 
 
 With locks all dropping halm, on roses laid, 
 
 Doth now with thee in pleasant grotto toy? 
 
 For whom dost thou thine amber tresses braid , 
 
 Array'd with simple elegance? 
 
 Alas ! alas ! How oft shall he deplore 
 The alter'd gods, and thy perfidious glance, 
 
 And, new to danger, shrink, when sea waves roar, 
 
 Chafed by the surly winds, who now 
 
 Enjoyeth thee, all golden as thou art; 
 And hopes, fond fool! through every change, that thou 
 
 Wilt welcome him as fondly to thy heart! 
 
 Nor doth not know, how shift the while 
 
 The fairest gales beneath the sunniest skies; 
 
 Unhappy he, who, weeting not thy guile, 
 Basks in the sunshine of thy flattering eyes! 
 
 My votive tablet, duly set 
 
 Against the temple's wall, doth witness keep, 
 That I, whilere, my vestments dank and wet 
 
 Hung at the shrine of Him that rules the deep. 
 
12 ODE VI. TO AGKIPPA. 
 
 Ode VI. 
 
 TO AGRIPPA. 
 
 By Varius shall thy prowess be 
 
 In strains Mseonic chaiuited , 
 The victories by land and sea, 
 Our gallant troops, led on by thee, 
 
 Have won with swords undaunted. 
 
 Such themes, Agrippa, never hath 
 
 My lyre essay'd, nor bold 
 Pelides' unrelenting wrath , 
 Nor artfullest Ulysses' path 
 
 O'er oceans manifold; 
 
 Nor woes of Pelops' fated line ; 
 
 Such flights too soaring are! 
 Nor doth my bashful Muse incline, 
 Great Caesar's eulogies and thine 
 
 With its thin notes to mar. 
 
 Who, Avho shall sing, with accents just, 
 
 Mars' adamantine mail, 
 Or Merion, grimed with Trojan dust, 
 Or him who , strong in Pallas' trust , 
 
 Made even gods to quail? 
 
 Heart-whole, or pierced by Cupid's sting, 
 
 In careless mirthfulness , 
 Of banquets we, and maidens sing, 
 With nails cut closely skirmishing, 
 
 When lovers hotly press. 
 
ODE VII. TO MtJNATIUS PLANCUS. 13 
 
 Ode VII. 
 
 TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS. 
 
 Some will laud fair Mytilene, — 
 
 Rhodes, where many wonders he, - 
 Some great Ephesus, or Corinth 
 
 Watered by its double sea; 
 Thebes renown' d for Bacchus, Delphi 
 
 Famous for Apollo's shrine, 
 Others praise Thessalian Tempe , 
 
 And its thousand charms divine; 
 Some the towers of spotless Pallas 
 
 Chaunt, nor ask another theme, 
 Thence to pluck an olive garland, 
 
 All their pride and all their dream. 
 Many a bard, in Juno's honour, 
 
 Makes the burden of his lyre 
 Rich Mycenae , grassy Argos , 
 
 Famous for its steeds of fire. 
 
 Me nor patient Lacedemon, 
 
 Nor Larissa's fertile plain, 
 Like Albunca's echoing fountain 
 
 All my inmost heart hath ta'en. 
 Give me Anio's headlong torrent, 
 
 And Tiburnus' grove and hills, 
 And its orchards sparkling dewy 
 
 With a thousand wimpling rills. 
 
 As the sunny southwind often 
 
 Sweeps the louring clouds away, 
 
 Nor with showers unceasing ever 
 Loads the long and dreary day, 
 
14 ODE VII. TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS. 
 
 Plancus, so do thou remember 
 
 Still to cheer with balmy wine 
 All the care and grief and travail 
 
 Of this toilworn life of thine ; 
 Whether in the throng'd camp, gleaming 
 
 With a thousand spears , or laid 
 On the turf beneath the umbrage 
 
 Of thy loved Tiburtine glade. 
 
 Teucer, though an outcast hunted 
 
 From his native Salamis, 
 Hunted by a father's anger, 
 
 Natheless — as the legend is — 
 On his forehead wet with revel 
 
 First a wreath of poplar bound, 
 Then his comrades thus accosted, 
 
 As they sadly stood around. 
 "Wheresoever Fortune , kinder 
 
 Than my sire , our voyage bends , 
 Thither shall we go together, 
 
 Oh my comrades , brothers , friends ! 
 Teucer for your leader, — marshall'd 
 
 Under Teucer' s guiding star, 
 What shall stay, or what shall daunt us? 
 
 Hence, then, craven fears, afar! 
 For I hold Apollo's promise, 
 
 That in other climes a new 
 Salamis shall rise around us, 
 
 Fairer, nobler to the view! 
 •Now, ye brave hearts, that have weather'd 
 
 Many a sorer strait with me , 
 Chase your cares with wine, — tomorrow 
 
 We shall plough the mighty sea!" 
 
ODE VIII. TO LYDIA. 15 
 
 Ode VIII. 
 
 TO LYDIA. 
 
 Why, Lydia, why, 
 I pray, by all the gods above, 
 
 Art so resolved that Sybaris should die, 
 And all for love? 
 
 Why doth he shun 
 The Campus Martins 1 sultry glare? 
 
 He that once reck'd of neither dust ^or sun, 
 Why rides he there, 
 
 First of the brave, 
 Taming the Gallic steed no more? 
 
 Why doth he shrink from Tiber's yellow wave? 
 Why thus abhor 
 
 The wrestlers' oil, 
 As 'twere from viper's tongue distill'd? 
 
 Why do his arms no livid bruises soil, 
 He, once so skill'd, 
 
 The disc or dart 
 Far, far beyond the mark to hurl? 
 
 And tell me, tell me, in what nook apart, 
 Like baby-girl , 
 
 -• 
 Lurks the poor boy, 
 
 Veiling his manhood, as did Thetis' son, 
 
 To 'scape war's bloody clang, while fated Troy 
 
 Was yet undone? 
 
16 ODE VIII. THE SAME PARAPHRASED. 
 
 THE SAME PARAPHRASED. 
 
 Nay, Lydia, 'tis too bad, it is, 
 
 Thus to inflame poor Sybaris. 
 
 Be merciful, you puss, or, sooth, 
 
 You'll soon make worms'-meat of the youth. 
 
 He's finished, floor'd, and all agree, 
 
 Was never man so changed as he! 
 
 Before his eyes by love were seal'd, 
 
 He headed every hunting field, 
 
 In horsemanship could all eclipse, 
 
 And was the very best of whips. 
 
 With skulls he was a match for Clasper, 
 
 His bat at cricket was a rasper, 
 
 And ne'er was eye or hand so quick 
 
 With gloves, or foil, or single stick; 
 
 A very stag to run or jump — 
 
 In short, he was a thorough trump. 
 
 But now, what way his time he spends, 
 
 Heaven only knows! He's cut his friends, 
 
 And, to complete his ruin quicker, 
 
 He neither smokes nor takes his liquor. 
 
 He's never seen, and now, they say 
 
 He's fairly bolted, stolen away! 
 
 Where have you hid him, Lydia, where? 
 
 You have him with you I could swear, 
 
 And, in your cast-off gown array'd, 
 
 He minces as your lady's maid. 
 
ODE IX. TO THAT.IARCHUS. 17 
 
 Ode IX. 
 
 TO THALIARCHUS. 
 
 Look out, my Thaliarclms , round! 
 
 Soracte's crest is white with snow, 
 The drooping branches sweep the ground , 
 And, fast in icy fetters bound, 
 
 The streams have ceased to flow. 
 
 Pile up fresh logs upon the hearth, 
 
 To. thaw the nipping cold, 
 And forth from Sabine jar, to wing 
 Our mirth, the ruddy vine.juice bring 
 
 Four mellowing summers old. 
 
 Leave to the Gods all else; when free 
 
 They set the surly winds , 
 To grapple on the yeasty sea 
 In headlong strife, the cypress tree, 
 
 The old ash respite finds. 
 
 Let not tomorrow's change or chance 
 
 Perplex thee, but as gain 
 Count each new day! Let beauty's glance 
 Engage thee, and the merry dance, 
 
 Nor deem such pleasures vain! 
 
18 ODE IX. TO THALIARCIIUS. 
 
 Gloom is for age. Young hearts should glow 
 
 With fancies bright and free , 
 Should court the crowded walk, the show, 
 And at dim eve love's murmurs low 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree; 
 
 The laugh from the sly corner, Avhere 
 
 Our girl is hiding fast, 
 The struggle for the lock of hair, 
 The half Avell pleased, half angry air, 
 
 The yielded kiss at last. 
 
ODE X. TO MERCDKY. 19 
 
 Ode X. 
 
 TO MERCURY. 
 
 Mercarius, Atlas' grandchild eloquent, 
 Who didst to gentle ways man's primal race 
 By language mould, and their uncouth limbs lent 
 The gymnast's grace , 
 
 Herald of mighty Jove, and all the gods, 
 Lord of the curved lyre, who canst at will 
 Filch for thy sport, whate'er may he the odds, 
 I'll hymn thee still! 
 
 When with loud threats he charged thee to forego 
 The kine, thy impish craft from him had wiled, 
 Even while he spoke, of quiver reft and how, 
 Apollo smiled. 
 
 Quitting his halls, by thee rich Priam led 
 Stole past the watchfires round Troy's leaguer'd wall, 
 And through the Grecian camp in safety sped, 
 Unseen of all. 
 
 Thou guid'st to bliss the spirits of the just, 
 Driving the phantoms with thy golden rod, 
 In heaven and hull beloved and held in trust 
 Jiy every god ! 
 
20 ODE XI. TO LEUCONOE. 
 
 Ode XI. 
 
 TO LEUCONOE. 
 
 Ask not of- fate to show ye , — 
 Such lore is not for man, — 
 What limits, Leuconoe,*) 
 Shall round life's little span. 
 Both thou and I 
 Must quickly die! 
 Content thee, then, nor madly hope 
 To wrest a false assurance from Chaldean horoscope. 
 
 Far nobler, better were it, 
 
 Whate'er may be in store, 
 With soul serene- to bear it; 
 If winters many more 
 Jove spare for thee, 
 Or this shall be 
 The last, that now with sullen roar 
 Scatters the Tuscan surge in foam upon the rockbound shore. 
 
 Be wise , your spirit firing 
 
 With cups of temper'd wine, 
 And hopes afar aspiring 
 In compass brief confine. 
 Use all life's powers , 
 The envious hours 
 Fly as we talk; then live to-day, 
 Nor fondly to tomorrow trust more than you must and may. 
 
 *) A license, allowable, it is hoped, has been laken in lengthening Ihe pennl- 
 limale syllable of this lady's beauliful name. 
 
ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS. 21 
 
 Ode XII. 
 
 TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 What man, what hero, Clio, wilt thou sing, 
 
 With lyre or fluting shrill? 
 What god, whose name shall sportive echo ring 
 
 On Helicon's umbrageous hill, 
 Or Pinclus' steepy crest, or Hsenras ever chill? 
 
 Whose groves reel'd after Orpheus, and his song, 
 
 Who by its spell could stay 
 The rushing sweep of streams and tempests strong, 
 
 And by his tuneful harpings sway 
 The listening oaks to move where'er he led the way. 
 
 What shall I sing before his praise , who reigns 
 
 The world's great sire , and guides 
 Of men and gods the pleasures and the pains, 
 
 Who rules the land and ocean's tides, 
 And change of seasons meet for the vast earth provides? 
 
 From whom springs none that mightier is than he,- 
 
 Nor other can we trace, 
 Of equal might, or second in degree ; 
 
 Yet Pallas fills the honoured place 
 Next to her sire, upraised o'er all the Olympian race. 
 
 Nor, Bacchus, bold in battle, shall thy fame 
 
 y [y numbers fail to sh e w , 
 And, virgin huntress of the woods, thy name 
 
 In answering strains shall flow, 
 And thine, Apollo, thine, god of the unerring bow! 
 
22 ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 Alcides, too, and Leda's sons I 1 ll sound 
 
 In echoing song- afar, 
 For wrestling this, that for the race reno\vn 1 d, 
 
 Soon as whose clear effulgent star 
 Upon the shipman gleams, amid the tempest's war, 
 
 Down from the rocks subsides the weltering spray, 
 
 The winds in zephyrs creep , 
 The clouds disperse, that veiled the gladsome day, 
 
 And on the wild and wasteful deep 
 The threatening waves — such power is theirs — are lull'd to sleep. 
 
 What next shall fill the burden of my strain, 
 
 I wist not to decide ; 
 Or Romulus, or Numa's tranquil reign , 
 
 Or Tarquin towering in his pride, 
 Or him of Utica , the brave , that nobly died. 
 
 Next Regulus , and the Scauri, Paulus too, 
 
 That flung his soul away, 
 His mighty soul, when Punic foes o'erthrew 
 
 Our strength on Cannae's fatal day, 
 With grateful pride Til chaunt in my undying lay; 
 
 Fabricius too, and Curius of the locks 
 
 Unkempt, — Camillus, — all 
 Nurtured to warfare by the daily shocks 
 
 Of stern privation, in the small 
 Paternal farm and cot that made of wealth their all. 
 
 With growth occult, as shoots the vigorous tree, 
 
 Marcellus' fame doth grow; 
 The star of Julius shines resplendently , 
 
 Eclipsing all the starry row, 
 As 'mid the lesser fires bright Luna's lamp doth glow. 
 
 
ODE XII. TO AUGUSTUS. 23 
 
 Thou sire and guardian of all human kind, 
 
 Saturnian Jove, to thee 
 The care of mighty Caesar was assign'd 
 
 By the o'er ruling fates , and he 
 Next to thyself in power our sovereign lord shall he. 
 
 Whether he quell the Parthian threatening spoil 
 
 To Latimn, and lead 
 The foe, that would insult our natal soil, 
 
 In spotless triumph, — or the Mede 
 ►Subdue, and other foes, the sweltering East doth hreed; 
 
 Next under thee, his righteous hand shall make 
 
 The world his rule obey; 
 Olympus thou with thy dread car shalt shake, 
 
 Thou shalt thy vengeful holts array 
 Against the groves, wherein foul orgies shrink from day. 
 
24 ODE XIII. TO LYDIA. 
 
 Ode XIII. 
 
 TO LYDIA. 
 
 Lydia, when so oft the charms 
 Of Telephus you bid me note, 
 
 Taunt me with his snowy arms, 
 Rosy cheek, and shapely throat, 
 
 Within my breast I feel the fires 
 
 Of wild and desperate desires. 
 
 Then reels my brain, then on my cheek 
 The shifting colour comes and goes, 
 
 And tears, that flow unbidden, speak 
 The torture of my inward throes , 
 
 The fierce unrest, the deathless flame, 
 
 That slowly macerates my frame. 
 
 Oh agony! to trace where he 
 
 Has smutch'd thy shoulders ivory-white 
 Amid his tipsy revelry; 
 
 Or where, in trance of fierce delight, 
 Upon thy lips the frenzied boy 
 Has left the records of his joy. 
 
 Hope not such love can last for aye, 
 (But thou art deaf to words of mine !) 
 
 Such selfish love , as ruthlessly 
 
 Could wound those kisses all divine , 
 
 Which Venus steeps in sweets intense 
 
 Of her own nectar's quintessence. 
 
ODE XIII. TO LYDIA. 25 
 
 Oh, trebly blest, and blest for ever, 
 Are they, whom true affection binds, 
 
 In whom no doubts nor j anglings sever 
 The union of their constant minds ; 
 
 But life in blended current flows , 
 
 Serene and sunny to the close ! 
 
2(5 ODE XIV. TO THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Ode XIV. 
 
 TO THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Oh bark, fresh waves shall hurry thee, 
 Yet once again, far out to sea; 
 Beware, beware; and boldly seize 
 The port, where thou may'st ride at ease! 
 Dost thou not see, thy side is shorn 
 Of all its oars, thy mainmast torn. 
 And hear thy lanyards moan and shriek, 
 And all thy straining- timbers creak, 
 Too frail to meet the surge around, 
 Though plank to plank with cables bound. 
 Thy sails are rent; nor gods hast thou. 
 When danger threats, to hear thy vow: 
 Although thou art a Pontic pine, 
 A woodland child of noble line , 
 Vain, vain amid the tempest's rage 
 Such vaunted name and lineage! 
 No trust hath fearful marinere 
 In gilded prow; so thou beware! 
 Unless it be thy doom to form 
 The sport and pastime of the storm. 
 Oh thou, that erewhile wert to me 
 A heavy-sad anxiety, 
 And now my fond ambition art , 
 The care that chiefly fills my heart, 
 Oh, be advised, and shun the seas, 
 That wash the shining Cycla&es! 
 
ODE XV. THE PROPHECY OE XEREUS. 
 
 Ode XV. 
 
 THE PROPHECY OF NERETTS. 
 
 As the treacherous shepherd bore over the deep 
 
 His hostess, fair Helena, Nereus arose, 
 Hnsh'd the war of the winds for a season to sleep, 
 
 And thus sang the doom of retributive woes. 
 
 "Thou bearest her home with an omen of dread, 
 
 "Whom Greece shall reclaim, with her myriads vow'd 
 
 To tear, by the sword, thy false mate from thy bed, 
 And crush Priam's empire, the ancient, the proud. 
 
 "Horse and man, how they labour! What deaths shall o'erwhelm, 
 And all for thy crime, the Dardanians in night! 
 
 See Pallas preparing her regis and helm, 
 
 Her chariot, and all the fierce frenzy of fight! 
 
 "Go, trim as thou wilt, boy, thy loose flowing curls, 
 
 Go, vaunt thee, that Venus shall shield thee from wrong, 
 
 And, laid with thy lute 'midst a bevy of girls. 
 Troll thy measures effeminate all the day Long. 
 
 "Ay, hide an' thou may'st in the couch of thy lust 
 
 From the death-dealing spear, and the arrows of Crete, 
 
 From the roar af the battle, its carnage, its dust, 
 And Ajax pursuing, remorseless and fleet! 
 
28 ODE XV. THE PROPHECY OF SEREUS. 
 
 "'Yet iii gore thy adulterous locks shall be roll'd, 
 
 Though late be thy doom. Lo, the scourge of thy race 
 
 Laertiades! Dost thou not see him? Behold! 
 And Pylian Nestor! — And see, on thy trace 
 
 "Rushes Teucer of Salamis, dauntless and fell, 
 And Sthenelus, skilful in combat, nor less 
 
 In ruling the warsteed expert to excel, 
 
 And close on thy track, too, shall Merion press. 
 
 "Lo , Tydides, surpassing* his father in might, 
 Athirst for thy lifeblood, with furious cheer 
 
 Is hunting thee out through the thick of the fight, 
 While before him thou fly'st, like a timorous deer, 
 
 "Who , espying a wolf on the brow of the hill 
 
 Flies far from the pasture, with heart-heaving pants; 
 
 Is it thus that thy leman shall see thee fulfil 
 The promise of all thy presumptuous vaunts? 
 
 "The wrath of Achilles shall stay for a while 
 The downfall of Ilion, and Phrygia's dames, — 
 
 Yet a few winters more, and her funeral pile 
 In ashes shall fall 'midst Achaian flames !" 
 
ODE XVI. TO TYXDARIS. 29 
 
 Ode XVI. 
 
 TO TYXDARIS. 
 
 Oh daughter, in beauty more exquisite still 
 
 Than a mother, whose beauty we all must admire, 
 
 My scurrilous verses destroy, how you will, 
 
 Deep drown them in ocean, or quench them in fire! 
 
 Dintlymene' herself, nor the Pythian, when 
 
 He convulses his priests with the fury prophetic,' 
 
 Nor Bacchus, nor Corybants , clashing; again 
 
 And again their wild cymbals , such fervour phrenetic 
 
 Can move as fell rage ; which no terrors can tame , 
 Neither Xorican glaive, nor the ocean bestrew'd 
 
 With wreck and disaster, nor merciless flame, 
 
 Nor the thunders of Jove in his vengefullest mood. 
 
 'Tie the curse of our birth; for Prometheus, they say, 
 CompelPd from all beasts some particular part 
 
 To select for his work , to our primitive clay 
 Imparted the lion's impetuous heart. 
 
 Rage drew on Thyestes the vengeance of heaven, 
 Through rage have been levell'd the loftiest halls 
 
 And cities high-famous, and ploughshares been driven 
 By insolent enemies over their walls. 
 
30 ODE XVI. TO TTNDARIS. 
 
 Oh, stifle the fiend! In the pleasant spring- time 
 
 Of my youth he enkindled my breast with his flame, 
 
 And headlong- I dash'd into petulant rhyme, 
 
 Which now in my manhood I think on with shame. 
 
 But a kindlier mood hath my passion supplanted, 
 And music more gentle shall flow from my lute, 
 
 Would'st thou make me thy friend, — my vile libels recanted, — 
 And smile with reciprocal love on my suit! 
 
ODE XVII. TO TYNDAKIS. 31 
 
 Ode XVII. 
 
 TO TYNDARIS. 
 
 My own sweet Lucretilis ofttime can lure 
 
 From Lis native Lycseus kind F annus the fleet, 
 
 To watch o'er my flocks, and to keep them secure 
 
 From summer's fierce winds, and its rains, and its heat. 
 
 Then the mates of a lord of too pungent a fragrance 
 Securely through brake and o'er precipice climb, 
 
 And crop, as they wander in happiest vagrance, 
 The arbutus green, and the sweet-scented thyme. 
 
 Xor murderous wolf, nor green snake may assail 
 My innocent kidlings, dear Tyndaris, when 
 
 His pipings resound through Ustica's low vale, 
 
 Till each moss'd rock in music makes answer again. 
 
 The muse is still dear to the gods, and they shield 
 Me their dutiful bard; with a bounty divine 
 
 They have bless'd me with all that the country can yield, 
 Then come, and whatever I have shall be thine! 
 
 Here screened from the dog-star, in valley retired, 
 
 Shalt thou sing that old song thou canst warble so well, 
 
 Which tells how one passion Penelope fired, 
 And charm'd fickle Circe herself by its spell. 
 
32 ODE XVII. TO TYNDARIS. 
 
 Here cups shalt thou sip , 'neath the broad-spreading' shade 
 Of the innocent vintage of Lesbos at ease, 
 
 No fumes of hot ire shall our banquet invade , 
 Or mar that sweet festival under the trees. 
 
 And fear not, lest Cyrus, that jealous young' bear, 
 On thy poor little self his rude fingers should set, 
 
 Should pluck from thy bright locks the chaplet, and tear 
 Thy dress, that ne'er harin'd him nor any one yet. 
 
 
ODE XVIII. TO VARUS. 33 
 
 Ode XVIII. 
 
 TO VARUS. 
 
 Let the vine, clearest Varus, the vine be the first 
 Of all trees to be planted, of all to be nursed, 
 On thy well shelter'd acres, round Catilus' walls, 
 Where the sun on the green slopes of Tivoli falls! 
 For to him who ne'er moistens his lip with the grape 
 Life's every demand wears a terrible shape, 
 And wine , and wine only has magic to scare 
 Despondency's gloom or the torments of care. 
 Who's he that, with wine's joyous fumes in his brain, 
 Of the travails of war, or of want will complain, 
 Nor rather, sire Bacchus, thy eulogies chant, 
 Or thine, Venus, thine, ever beautiful, vaunt? 
 
 Yet, that none may abuse the good gift, and o'erpass 
 The innocent mirth of a temperate glass , 
 A warning is set in the wine-kindled strife , 
 Where the Centaurs and Lapithse grappled for life ; 
 In the madmen of Thrace, too, a warning is set, 
 Who, lost in their Bacchanal phrenzy, forget 
 The bounds that dissever the right from the wrong, 
 And sweep on the tide of their passions along. 
 
 Bright god of the vine, I never will share 
 In orgies so vile and unholy, nor tear 
 The clusters of various foliage awa} r , 
 That keep thy blest mysteries veil'd from the day 
 
34 ODE XVIII. TO VARUS. 
 
 Then clash not the cymbals, and wind not the horn, 
 Dread sounds , of whose maddening' accents are born 
 Blind Self-love , and Vanity lifting- on high 
 Its feather-brain' d head, as 'twould strike at the sky, 
 And Frankness, transparent as crystal, that shows 
 In its babbling 1 incontinence all that it knows. 
 
ODE XIX. TO GLYCERA. 35 
 
 Ode XIX. 
 
 TO GLYCERA. 
 
 The ruthless mother of wild desires , 
 
 And Theban Seniele's fervent son, 
 And wanton idlesse have kindled fires 
 
 Within me , I dream'd I had long outrun. 
 I am madden'd by Glycera's beauty's blaze , — 
 
 The marble of Paros is pale beside it — 
 By her pretty, provoking, and petulant ways, 
 
 And face too dazzling for eye to 'bide it. 
 
 Into me rushing, hath Venus quite 
 
 Forsaken her Cyprus, nor lets me chant 
 The Scyths and the Parthians, dauntless in flight, 
 
 Nor aught that to Love is irrelevant. 
 Hither, boys, turf of the freshest bring, 
 
 Vervain, and incense, and wine unstinted! 
 The goddess less fiercely my heart shall sting, 
 
 When the victim's gore hath her altar tinted. 
 
36 ODE XX. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Ode XX. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Our common Sabine wine shall be 
 The only drink I'll give to thee , 
 
 In modest goblets too ; 
 'Twas stored in crock of Grecian delf, 
 Dear knight Maecenas, by myself, 
 
 That very day, when through 
 The theatre thy plaudits rang , 
 And sportive echo caught the clang, 
 
 And answer'd from the banks 
 Of thine own dear paternal stream, 
 Whilst Vatican renew'd the theme 
 
 Of homage and of thanks! 
 Old CaBcuban, the very best, 
 And juice in vats Calenian press'd 
 
 You drink at home, I know: 
 My cups no choice Falernian fills, 
 Nor unto them do Formia's hills 
 
 Impart a temper'd glow. 
 
ODE XXI. IX HONOUR OF DIANA AXD APOLLO. 37 
 
 Ode XXI. 
 
 IX HONOUR OF DIANA AXD APOLLO. 
 
 Ye tender virgins fair, 
 To great Diana sing, 
 Ye boys, to Cynthius of the unshorn hair, 
 Your dulcet anthems bring, 
 And let Latona mingle with your theme , 
 That dearer is than all to Jove, Heaven's lord supreme! 
 
 Her praises sing , ye maids , 
 
 Who doth in streams delight, 
 In whispering groves, and intertangled glades, 
 On Algidus 1 cool height, 
 Or Erymanthus with its dusky pines , 
 Or where with verdure bright the leafy Cragus shines. 
 
 Ye boys, in numbers meet, 
 
 Fair Tempe's praises chant, 
 Delos , that was Apollo's natal seat, 
 And loved peculiar haunt; 
 Sing, too, his quiver with its golden gleams, 
 And lyre, his brother's gift, that from his shoulder beams 
 
 Moved by your prayers he will 
 
 Banish distressful war, 
 Famine, and pestilence, and their trains of ill 
 From our loved Rome afar, 
 And from great Caesar, scattering their blight, 
 The Persian's pride to quell, or Britain's chainlcss might. 
 
38 ODE XXII. TO AKISTIUS FUSCUS. 
 
 Ode XXII. 
 
 TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS. 
 
 Fuscus, the man of life upright and pure 
 Needeth nor javelin, nor bow of Moor, 
 Nor arrows tipp'd with venom deadly-sure , 
 Loading his quiver; 
 
 Whether o'er Afric's burning sands he rides, 
 Or frosty Caucasus' bleak mountain -sides, 
 Or wanders lonely, where Hydaspes glides, 
 That storied river. 
 
 For as I stray'd along the Sabine wood, 
 Singing my Lalage in careless mood, 
 Lo, all at once a wolf before me -stood, 
 Then turn'd and fled: 
 
 Creature so huge did warlike Daunia ne'er 
 Engender in her forests' wildest lair, 
 Not Juba's land, parch'd nurse of lions, e'er 
 Such monster bred. 
 
 Place me, where no life-laden summer breeze 
 Freshens the meads, or murmurs 'mongst the trees, 
 Where clouds, and blighting tempests ever freeze 
 From year to year; 
 
 Place me , where neighbouring sunbeams fiercely broil 
 A weary waste of scorch'd and homeless soil, 
 To me my Lalage's sweet voice and smile 
 Would still be dear! 
 
ODE XXIII. TO CHLOE. 39 
 
 Ode XXIII. 
 
 TO CHLOE. 
 
 Nay, hear me, dearest Chloe, pray! 
 
 You shun me like a timid fawn , 
 That seeks its mother all the day 
 
 By forest brake and upland lawn , 
 Of every passing- breeze afraid, 
 And leaf that twitters in the glade. 
 
 Let but the wind with sudden rush 
 The whispers of the wood awake, 
 
 Or lizard green disturb the hush, 
 
 Quick-darting through the grassy brake 
 
 The foolish frightened thing will start, 
 
 With trembling knees and beating heart. 
 
 But I am neither lion fell, 
 
 Nor tiger grim to work you woe ; 
 
 I love you, sweet one, much too well, 
 Then cling not to your mother so, 
 
 But to a lover's tender arms 
 
 Confide your ripe and rosy charms. 
 
40 ODE XXIV. TO VIRGIL. 
 
 
 Ode XXIV. 
 
 TO VIRGIL. 
 
 Why should we stem the tears that needs must flow, 
 Why blush, that they should freely flow and long? 
 
 To think of that dear head in death laid low? 
 Do thou inspire my melancholy song, 
 
 Melpomene, in whom the Muses' sire 
 
 Join'd with a liquid voice the mastery of the lyre ! 
 
 And hath the sleep, that knows no waking morn, 
 
 Closed o'er Quinctilius, our Quinctilius d 
 
 - 
 
 Where shall be found the man of woman born 
 
 That in desert might be esteem'd his peer, — 
 So simply meek, and yet so sternly just, 
 Of faith so pure, and all so absolute of trust? 
 
 He sank into his rest, bewept of many, 
 And but the good and noble wept for him, 
 
 But dearer cause thou, Virgil, hadst than any, 
 With friendship's tears thy friendless eyes to dim ! 
 
 Alas, alas! Not to such woful end 
 
 Didst thou unto the gods thy pray'rs unceasing send! 
 
 What though thou modulate the tuneful shell 
 With defter skill than Orpheus of old Thrace, 
 
 When deftliest he played, and with its spell 
 Moved all the listening forest from its place, 
 
 Yet never, never can thy art avail 
 
 To bring life's glowing tide back to the phantom pale, 
 
ODE XXIV. TO VIRGIL. 41 
 
 Whom with his black inexorable wand 
 Hermes, austere and pitiless as fate, 
 
 Hath forced to join the dark and spectral band 
 In their sad journey to the Stygian gate. 
 
 Tis hard, great heav'ns, how hard! But to endure 
 
 Alleviates the pang we may nor crush nor cure ! 
 
42 ODE XXV. TO LYDIA. 
 
 Ode XXV. 
 
 TO LYDIA. 
 
 Swains in numbers 
 Break jour slumbers, 
 Saucy Lydia, now but seldom, 
 
 Ay, though at your casement nightly, 
 Tapping loudly, tapping lightly, 
 By the dozen once ye held them. 
 
 Ever turning, 
 Night and morning, 
 Swung your door upon its hinges ; 
 
 Now, from dawn till evening's closing 
 Lone and desolate reposing, 
 Not a soul its rest infringes. 
 
 Serenaders , 
 Sweet invaders , 
 Scanter grow, and daily scanter, 
 Singing, 'Lydia, art thou sleeping? 
 Lonely watch thy love is keeping! 
 Wake, oh wake, thou dear enchanter!' 
 
 Lorn and faded, 
 You, as they did, 
 Woo, and in your turn are slighted; 
 Worn and torn by passion's fret, 
 You, the pitiless coquette, 
 Waste by fires yourself have lighted. 
 
ODE XXV. TO LYDIA. 43 
 
 Late relenting, 
 Left lamenting — 
 'Wither' d leaves strew wintry brooks! 
 Ivy garlands greenly darkling , 
 Myrtles brown with dew-drops sparkling, 
 Best beseem youth's glowing looks!' 
 
44 ODE XXVI. TO HIS MUSE. 
 
 Ode XXVI. 
 
 TO HIS MUSE. 
 
 Beloved by and loving- the Muses, 
 
 I fling- all my sorrow and care 
 To the wind, that wherever it chooses 
 
 The troublesome freight it may bear. 
 I care not — not I — not a stiver , 
 
 Who in Scythia frozen and drear 
 'Neath the scourge of a tyrant may shiver, 
 
 Or who keeps Tiridates in fear. 
 
 Oh thou in pure springs who delightest, 
 
 Twine flowers of the sunniest glow , 
 Twine, gentle Pimplea, the brightest 
 
 Of wreaths for my Lamia's brow. 
 Without thee unskill'd are my numbers; 
 
 Then thou and thy sisterly choir 
 Wake for him the rare music that slumbers 
 
 Unknown in the Lesbian lvre! 
 
ODE XXVII. THE CAROUSAL. 45 
 
 Ode XXVII. 
 
 THE CAROUSAL. 
 
 Hold! hold! 'Tis for Thracian madmen to fig-lit 
 With wine-cups, that only were made for delight. 
 'Tis barbarous — brutal! I beg of you all, 
 Disgrace not our banquet with bloodshed and brawl! 
 
 The Median scimetar , why should it shine , 
 Where the merry lamps sparkle and glance in the wine? 
 'Tis out of all rule ! Friends , your places resume , 
 And let us have order once more in the room ! 
 
 If I am to join you in pledging a beaker 
 Of this stout Falernian, choicest of liquor, 
 Megilla's fair brother must say , from what eyes 
 Flew the shaft, sweetly fatal, that causes his sighs. 
 
 How — dumb! Then I drink not a drop. Never blush, 
 Whoever the fair one may be, man! Tush, tush! 
 She'll do your taste credit , I'm certain — for yours 
 Was always select in its little amours. 
 
 Don't be frightened! We're all upon honour, you know, 
 So out with your tale ! Gracious powers ! Is it so ? 
 Poor fellow! your lot has gone sadly amiss, 
 When you fell into such a Charybdis as this ! 
 
 What witch , what magician , with drinks and with charms , 
 What god can effect your release from her harms? 
 So fettered, scarce Pegasus' self, were he near you, 
 From the fangs of this triple Chimaera might clear you! 
 
46 ODE XXVIII. ARCHYTAS 
 
 Ode XXVIII. 
 
 ARCHYTAS. 
 
 Thee, oh Archytas, who hast scann'd 
 
 The wonders of the world by sea and land , 
 The lack of some few grains 
 Of scatter'd dust detains 
 A shivering phantom here upon Matinum's strand. 
 And it avails thee nothing, that thy soul, 
 Death's sure-devoted prey, 
 Soar'd to the regions of eternal day, 
 Where wheeling spheres in silvery brightness roll. 
 
 ARCHYTAS. 
 
 What then! E'en Pelops' sire, the guest 
 
 Of gods, to Orcns sank, by death oppress'd, 
 And old Tithonus, too, 
 Though heavenly air he drew, 
 And Minos stern , who shared the secrets of Jove's breast. 
 There, too, Panthoides , once more immured, 
 Roams, though his spirit's pride 
 All save this fading flesh to death denied, 
 By his old Trojan shield deceitfully assured. 
 
 And he , even thou wilt grant me , was 
 
 Not meanly versed in truth and nature's laws. 
 
 But for us all doth stay 
 
 One night, and death's dark way, 
 Must needs be trodden once , howe'er we pause. 
 The Furies some to Mars' grim sport consign , 
 
ODE XXVIII. ARCHYTAS. 47 
 
 The hungry waves devour 
 
 The shipman, young and old drop hour by hour, 
 No single head is spared by ruthless Proserpine. 
 
 Me, too, the headlong gust, 
 
 That dogs Orion , 'neath the billows thrust. 
 But, prithee, seaman, shed 
 On my unburied head 
 And limbs with gentle hand some grains of drifting dust! 
 So may the storm that threats the western deep 
 Turn all its wrath away, 
 To smite the forests of Venusia, 
 And thou thy course secure o'er the mild ocean keep! 
 
 So may from every hand 
 
 Wealth rain on thee by righteous Jove's command ! 
 And Neptune, who doth bear 
 Tarentum in his care 
 Bring thy rich-laden argosy to land! 
 Deny me this, the common tribute due, 
 And races to be born 
 Of thy sons' sons in after years forlorn, 
 Though guiltless of thy crime , thy heartless scorn shall rue ! 
 
 Nor shall thyself go free , 
 
 For Fate's vicissitudes shall follow thee, 
 Its laws, that slight for slight, 
 And good for good requite ! 
 Not unavenged my bootless pray'r shall be ; 
 Nor victim ever expiate thy guilt. 
 
 Oh, then, though speed thou must — 
 It asks brief tarrying — thrice with kindly dust 
 Bestrew my corpse, and then press onward as thou wilt! 
 
48 ODE XXIX. TO ICCIUS. 
 
 Ode XXIX. 
 
 TO ICCIUS. 
 
 So , Iccius , thou hast hankerings 
 
 For swart Arabia's golden treasures, 
 And for her still unconquer'd kings 
 
 Art marshalling war's deadly measures , 
 And forging fetters meant to tame 
 The insulting Mede that is our terror and our shame? 
 
 Say, what barbarian virgin fair 
 
 Shall wait on thee, that slew her lover, 
 
 What princely boy, with perfumed hair, 
 Thy cupbearer, shall round thee hover, 
 
 School'd by his sire , with fatal craft 
 
 To wing, all vainly now, the unerring Seric shaft? 
 
 Up mountains steep may glide the brooks, 
 
 And Tiber to its sources roam, 
 When thou canst change thy noble books 
 
 Cull'd far and near, and learned home, 
 For armour dipp'd in Ebro's wave, 
 Thou who to all our hopes far nobler promise gave ! 
 
ODE XXX. TO VENUS. 49 
 
 Ode XXX. 
 
 TO VEXUS. 
 
 Oh Venus, queen of Gniclos, Paphos fair, 
 Leave thy beloved Cyprus for a while , 
 
 And shrine thee in that bower of beauty, where 
 AVith incense large woos Glycera thy smile ! 
 
 Oh come, and with thee bring thy glowing boy, 
 The Graces all, with kirtles floating free, 
 
 Youth, that without thee knows but little joy, 
 The jocund Nymphs , and blithesome Mercury! 
 
50 ODE XXXI. THE POET'S PRAYER. 
 
 Ode XXXf. 
 
 THE POET'S PRAYER. 
 
 What asksthe poet, who adores 
 
 Apollo's virgin shrine , 
 What asks he, as he freely pours 
 
 The consecrating wine? 
 
 Not the rich grain, that waves along 
 
 Sardinia's fertile land, 
 Nor the unnumher'd herds, that throng 
 
 Calabria's sultry strand; 
 
 Not gold, nor ivory's snowy gleam, 
 
 The spoil of far Cathay, 
 Nor fields, which Liris , quiet stream, 
 
 Gnaws silently away. 
 
 Let fortune's favour'd sons the vine 
 
 Of fair Campania hold; 
 The merchant quaff the rarest wine 
 
 From cups of gleaming gold; 
 
 For to the Gods the man is dear 
 Who scathelessly can brave , 
 
 Three times or more in every year, 
 The wild Atlantic wave. 
 
ODE XXXI. THE POET'S PRAYER. 51 
 
 Let olives , endive , mallows light 
 Be all my fare; and health 
 
 Give thou, Latoe, so I might 
 Enjoy my present wealth! 
 
 Give me but these , I ask no more 
 These , and a mind entire — 
 
 An old age, not unhonour'd, nor 
 Unsolaced by the lyre ! 
 
52 ODE XXXII. TO HIS LYRE. 
 
 Ode XXXII. 
 
 TO HIS LYRE. 
 
 If e'er with thee, my lyre, beneath the shade 
 I've sported, carolling some idle lay, 
 
 Destined mayhap not all at once to fade, 
 Aid me to sing- a master-song to day, 
 
 In strains , the Lesbian's lyre was foremost to essay 
 
 Who, though in battle brave among the brave, 
 Yet, even amidst the camp's tumultuous roar, 
 
 Or when his bark, long Joss'd upon the wave, 
 Lay anchor'd safe upon the oozy shore , 
 
 Did hymns to Bacchus and the golden Muses pour. 
 
 And Venus, and that source of many sighs, 
 The Boy, who from her side is parted ne'er, 
 
 And Lycus famed for his black lustrous eyes , 
 And for the glory of his deep dark hair, 
 
 Rang in his fulltoned verse along the charmed air. 
 
 Oh, 'midst Apollo's glories chief of all, 
 
 Thou shell, that ever art a welcome guest, 
 
 In sovereign Jove's imperial banquet-hall, 
 
 Thou, labour's balm, and bringer of sweet rest, 
 
 Aid him that doth on thee with due devotion call! 
 
ODE XXXIII. TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. 53 
 
 Ode XXXIII. 
 
 TO ALBIUS TIBULLUS. 
 
 Nay, Albius , a truce to this sighing and grieving! 
 
 Is Glycera worth all this tempest of woe? 
 Why flatter her, lachrymose elegies weaving, 
 
 Because she is false for a youth fuller beau? 
 
 There's Lycoris , the maid with the small rounded forehead, 
 
 For Cyrus is wasting by inches away, 
 Whilst for Pholoe he, with a passion as torrid, 
 
 Consumes, and to him she'll have nothing to say. 
 
 The she-goats, in fact, might be sooner expected 
 
 Apulia's wolves for their partners to take , 
 Than a girl so divine to be ever connected 
 
 With such an abandoned and pitiful rake. 
 
 Such caprices hath Venus, who, rarely propitious, 
 
 Delights in her fetters of iron to bind 
 Those pairs whom she sees, with a pleasure malicious, 
 
 Unmatched both in fortune , and figure , and mind. 
 
 I myself, woo'd by one that was truly a jewel, 
 In thraldom was held , which I cheerfully bore , 
 
 By that common chit, Myrtale, though she was cruel 
 As waves that indent the Calabrian shore. 
 
54 ODE XXXIV. THE POET'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Ode XXXIV. 
 
 THE POET'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Unto the Gods my vows were scant 
 And few, whilst I profess'd the cant 
 
 Of philosophic lore, 
 But now I back my sails perforce, 
 Fain to retrace the beaten course, 
 
 I had contemned before. 
 
 For Jove, who with his forked levin 
 Is wont to rend the louring heaven, 
 
 Of late with hurtlings loud 
 His thunder pacing steeds did urge , 
 And winged car along the verge 
 
 Of skies without a cloud; 
 
 Whereat the huge earth reel'd with fear, 
 
 The rivers, Styx, the portal drear 
 
 Of Tsenarus abhorr'd, 
 
 While distant Atlas caught the sound , 
 
 And quiver'd to its farthest bound. 
 
 The world's great god and lord 
 
 Can change the lofty to the low, 
 
 The mighty ones of earth o'erthrow, 
 
 Advancing the obscure; 
 
 Fate wrests the crown from lordly brow 
 
 On his to plant it, who but now 
 
 Was poorest of the poor. 
 
 
ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE. 55 
 
 Ode XXXV. 
 
 TO FORTUNE. 
 
 Oh pleasant Antrum's goddess queen, 
 
 Whose presence hath avail 
 Mortals to lift from mean estate, 
 Or change triumphal hymns elate 
 
 To notes of funeral wail; 
 
 Thee with heart-anxious prayer invokes 
 
 The rustic at the plough, 
 Thee, mistress of the ocean-wave. 
 Whoe'er Carpathia's surges brave 
 
 With frail Bithynian prow; 
 
 Thee Scythia's ever roving hordes, 
 
 And Dacians rude revere, 
 Cities, and tribes, Rome's dauntless band, 
 Barbaric monarchs' mothers, and 
 
 Empurpled tyrants fear; 
 
 Lest thou shouldst crush their pillar'd state 
 
 Beneath thy whelming foot, 
 Lest madding crowds with shrill alarms 
 Pealing the cry — ■ "To arms! To arms!" 
 
 Should seated thrones uproot. 
 
 Before thee evermore doth Fate 
 
 Stalk phantomlike . and bear 
 In brazen hand huge nails dispread; 
 And wedges grim, and molten lead, 
 
 And iron clamps are there. 
 
56 ODE XXXV. TO FORTUNE. 
 
 Thee Hope attend, and Truth rare-seen, 
 
 In vestments snowy-dyed, 
 Nor quit thee , though in changed array 
 Thou turn with angry frown away 
 
 From halls of stately pride. 
 
 But the unfaithful harlot herd 
 
 Slink back. Howe'er they cling, 
 Once to the lees the wine-vat drain, 
 And shrinking from the yoke of pain, 
 
 These summer friends take wing! 
 
 Our Caesar's way to Britain guard 
 
 Earth's farthest boundary, 
 And make our youthful hosts thy care , 
 Who terror to the East shall bear, 
 
 And the far Indian sea! 
 
 By brothers 1 blows , by brothers , blood , 
 
 Our souls are gash'd and stain'd. 
 Alas! What horror have we fled? 
 What crime not wrought? When hath the dread 
 
 Of heav'n our youth restrain'd? 
 
 Where is the altar unprofaned 
 
 By them? Oh may we see 
 Thy hand new- whet their blunted swords, 
 To smite Arabia's tented hordes, 
 
 And the Massagetse ! 
 
ODE XXXVI. TO NUMIDA. 57 
 
 Ode XXXVI. 
 
 TO NUMIDA. 
 
 Sing, comrades, sing, let incense burn, 
 And blood of votive heifer flow 
 Unto the gods, to whom we owe 
 Our Nurnida's return! 
 
 Warm greetings many wait him here, 
 From farthest Spain restored, but none 
 From him return so warm hath won, 
 As Lamia's, chiefly dear. 
 
 His boyhood's friend, in school and play, 
 Together manhood's gown they donn'd; 
 Then mark with white , all days beyond . 
 This most auspicious day. 
 
 Bid wine flow fast without control, 
 And let the dancers' merry feet 
 The ground in Saliar manner beat, 
 And Bassus drain the bowl, 
 
 Unbreathed, or own the mastering power 
 Of Damalis; and roses fair, 
 And parsley's vivid green be there, 
 And lilies of an hour! 
 
 On Damalis shall fond looks be bent, 
 But sooner shall the ivy be 
 Torn from its wedded oak, than she 
 Be from her new love rent. 
 
58 ODE XXXVII. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 
 
 Ode XXXVII. 
 
 TO HIS COMPANIONS. 
 
 Now, comrades, fill each goblet to the brim, 
 
 Now, now with bounding footstep strike the ground, 
 With costliest offerings every fane be crown'd, 
 
 Laud we the gods with thousand-voiced hymn! 
 
 It had been impious, till this glad hour 
 To bid our grandsires' Csecuban to flow, 
 While Egypt's queen was listed to o'erthrow 
 
 Rome's empire, Rome itself, — home, temple , tower! 
 
 Oh doting dream! — She, with her eunuch train, 
 
 Effeminate and vile , to conquer us ! 
 
 Drunk with success , and madly venturous , 
 Swift ruin quell'd the fever of her brain. 
 
 Her fleet, save one poor bark, in flames and wrack, 
 The frenzied fumes, by Egypt's vintage bred, 
 Were turn'd to real terrors as she fled, 
 
 Fled from our shores with Caesar on her track. 
 
 As hawk pursues the dove , as o'er the plains 
 Of snow-wrapt Scythia, like the driving wind, 
 The huntsman tracks the hare, he swept behind, 
 
 To fix that fair and fatal pest in chains. 
 
 But her's no spirit was to perish meanly; 
 A woman, yet not womanishly weak, 
 She ran her galley to no sheltering creek, 
 
 Nor quail'd before the sword, but met it queenly. 
 
ODE XXXVII. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 59 
 
 So to her lonely palace-halls she came, 
 With eye serene their desolation view'd, 
 And with firm hand the angry aspics woo'd 
 
 To dart their deadliest venom through her frame. 
 
 Then with a prideful smile she sank; for she 
 Had robb'd Rome's galleys of their royal prize. 
 Queen to the last, and ne'er in humbled guise 
 
 To swell a triumph's haughty pageantry! 
 
60 ODE XXXVITI. TO HIS CUPBEARER. 
 
 Ode XXXVIII. 
 
 TO HIS CUPBEARER. 
 
 Persia's pomp, my boy, I hate, 
 No coronals of flowerets rare 
 
 For me on bark of linden plait, 
 Nor seek thou, to discover where 
 
 The lush rose lingers late. 
 
 With unpretending' myrtle twine 
 Nought else ! It fits your brows , 
 
 Attending me , it graces mine , 
 As I in happy ease carouse 
 
 Beneath the thick-leaved vine. 
 
ODE I. TO ASINIUS POLLIO. 63 
 
 Ode I. 
 
 TO ASINIUS POLLIO. 
 
 The civil broils that date 
 Back from Metellus 1 luckless consulate , 
 
 The causes of the strife , 
 Its vices, with fresh seeds of turmoil rife, 
 
 The turns of fortune's tide, 
 The leagues of chiefs to direful ends allied, 
 
 The arms of Romans wet 
 With brothers 1 blood, not expiated yet, 
 
 These are thy chosen theme , 
 An enterprise that doth with peril teem, 
 
 For everywhere thy tread 
 On ashes falls, o'er lull'd volcanoes thinly spread! 
 
 Mute for some little time 
 Must be the Muse of tragedy sublime 
 
 Within our theatres; anon, 
 The task of chronicling our story done , 
 
 Thy noble bent pursue, 
 And the Cecropian buskin don anew, 
 
 Pollio, thou shield unstain'd 
 Of woful souls, that are of guilt arraign'd, 
 
 On whose persuasive tongue 
 The senate oft in deep debate hath hung, 
 
 Whose fame for laurels won 
 In fields Dalmatian shall through farthest ages run! 
 
 And now our ears you pierce 
 With clarions shrill, and trumpets 1 threatenings fierce. 
 
64 ODE I. TO ASINIUS POLLIO. 
 
 Now flashing arms affright 
 Horses and riders, scattering both in flight; 
 
 Now do I seem to hear 
 The shouting of the mighty leaders near, 
 
 And see them strike and thrust, 
 Begrimed with not unhonourable dust; 
 
 And all earth own control, 
 All, all save only Cato's unrelenting soul! 
 
 Juno, and whosoe'er 
 Among the gods made Afric's sons their care , 
 
 On that same soil, which they, 
 Of vengeance foiled, had turned from in dismay, 
 
 Unto Jugurtha's shade 
 His victor's grandsons as an offering paid. 
 
 Where is the plain, that by 
 Its mounds sepulchral doth not testify 
 
 To many an impious fray, 
 Where Latian blood made fat the yielding clay, 
 
 And to fell havoc's sound 
 Peal'd from the west to Media's farthest bound? 
 
 What bays, what rivers are 
 By ills unvisited of woful war? 
 
 What oceans by the tide 
 Of slaughter rolling red have not been dyed? 
 
 Where shall be found the shore, 
 Is not incarnadined by Roman gore? 
 
 But, froward Muse, refrain, 
 Affect not thou the elegiac strain! 
 
 With lighter touch essay 
 In Dioncean cave with me some sprightlier lay! 
 
 
ODE II. TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS. 65 
 
 Ode II. 
 
 TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS. 
 
 Nor gold , nor silver , buried low 
 
 Withia the grudging earth, 
 "With lustre doth or beauty glow , 
 
 'Tis light to these gives birth. 
 This truth, Sallustius . thou dost make 
 
 Thy law, thou foe to pelf, 
 Unless from temperate use it take 
 
 A sheen beyond itself; 
 
 Such use as Proculeius taught; 
 
 Preeminently known 
 For all a father's loving thought 
 
 Unto his brothers shewn, 
 Through distant ages sha 1 ! his name 
 
 With note triumphant ring, 
 Borne on from clime to clime by fame 
 
 On ever soaring wing. 
 
 Subdue the lust for gold, and thine 
 
 Will be an ampler reign, 
 Than if thy kingdom should combine 
 
 Far Lybia with Spain; 
 A grasping spirit to o'ercome 
 
 Is better, than to seize 
 The solely sovereign masterdom 
 
 Of both the Carthaeres. 
 
66 ODE II. TO CRISPUS SALLUSTIUS. 
 
 That scourge of man , the dropsy fell , 
 
 By self-indulgence nurst , 
 Grows worse and worse, nor can expel 
 
 The still increasing thirst, 
 Unless the cause, which bred the bale, 
 
 Is routed from the veins , 
 And from the body's tissues pale 
 
 The watery languor drains. 
 
 Wisdom , who doth all issues test 
 
 By worth and worth alone, 
 Scorns to pronounce Phraates blest, 
 
 Replaced on Cyrus 1 throne ; 
 From vulgar tongues, that swell the roar 
 
 Of clamour differing wide, 
 It teaches them to deal no more 
 
 In phrases misapplied. 
 
 For only he is king indeed, 
 
 And may securely wear 
 The diadem, and, nobler meed, 
 
 The laurel garland fair, 
 Who , even where piles of treasure lie , 
 
 Preserves an even mind, 
 And passing them without a v sigh, 
 
 Cares not to look behind. 
 
ODE III. TO DELLIUS. 67 
 
 Ode III. 
 
 TO DELLIUS. 
 
 Let not the frowns of fate 
 
 Disquiet thee, my friend, 
 Nor, when she smiles on thee, do thou, elate 
 
 With vaunting- thoughts, ascend 
 Beyond the limits of becoming" mirth, 
 For, Dellius, thou must die, become a clod of earth! 
 
 Whether thy days go down 
 
 In gloom, and dull regrets, 
 Or, shunning life's vain struggle for renown, 
 
 Its fever and its frets , 
 Stretch'd on the grass, with old Falernian wine, 
 Thou giv'st the thoughtless hours a rapture all divine. 
 
 Where the tall spreading pine , 
 
 And white-leaved poplar grow, 
 xVnd mingling their broad boughs in leafy twine , 
 
 A grateful shadow throw , 
 Where runs the wimpling brook, its slumb'rous tune 
 Still murmuring, as it runs, to the hush'd ear of noon; 
 
 There wine, there perfumes bring, 
 
 Bring garlands of the rose , 
 Fair and too short-lived daughter of the spring, 
 
 While youth's bright current flows 
 Within thy veins, — ere yet hath come the hour, 
 When the dread sisters three shall clutch thee in their power 
 
 5* 
 
68 ODE III. TO DELLIUS. 
 
 Thy woods, thy treasured pride , 
 
 Thy mansion's pleasant seat, 
 Thy lawns washed by the Tiber's yellow tide, 
 
 Each favourite retreat, 
 Thou must leave all — all, and thine heir shall run 
 In riot through the wealth thy years of toil have won. 
 
 It recks not, whether thou 
 
 Be opulent, and trace 
 Thy birth from kings , or bear upon thy brow 
 
 Stamp of a beggar's race; 
 Be what thou wilt, full surely must thou fall, 
 For Orcus, ruthless king, swoops equally on all. 
 
 Yes, all are hurrying fast 
 
 To the one common bourne ; 
 Sooner or later will the lot at last 
 
 Drop from the fatal urn, 
 Which sends thee hence in the grim Stygian bark, 
 To dwell for evermore in cheerless realms and dark. 
 
ODE IV. TO XAXTHIAS PHOCEUS. 69 
 
 Ode IV. 
 
 TO XANTHIAS PHOCEUS. 
 
 Nay , Xanthias , my friend , never blusli , man — no , no ! 
 
 Why should you not love your own maid, if you please? 
 Briseis of old , with her bosom of snow , 
 
 Brought the haughty Achilles himself to his knees. 
 
 By his captive, Tecmessa, was Telamon's son, 
 
 Stout Ajax, to willing captivity tamed; 
 Atrides, in triumph, was wholly undone, 
 
 With love for the slave of his warspear inflamed, 
 
 In the hot hour of triumph, when, quell'd by the spear 
 
 Of Pelides, in heaps the barbarians lay; 
 And Troy , with her Hector* no longer to fear, 
 
 To the war-wearied Greeks fell an easier prey. 
 
 For aught that you know, now, fair Phyllis may be 
 The shoot of some highly respectable stem; 
 
 Nay, she counts, I'll be sworn, a few kings in her tree, 
 And laments the lost acres once lorded by them. 
 
 Never think that a creature so exquisite grew 
 
 In the haunts where but vice and dishonour are known, 
 
 Nor deem that a girl so unselfish, so true, 
 
 Had a mother 'twould shame thee to take for thine own. 
 
 I extol with free heart, and with fancy as free, 
 Her sweet face, fine ancles, and tapering arms. 
 
 How! Jealous V Nay, trust an old fellow like me, 
 
 Who can feel, but not follow, where loveliness charms. 
 
ODE V. TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Ode V. 
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 Have patience! She's plainly too tender, you see, 
 The yoke on her delicate shoulders to bear, 
 
 So young as she is, fit she never could be 
 
 His task with the gentlest yoke-fellow to share , 
 
 Or brook the assault of the ponderous bull, 
 
 Rushing headlong the fire of his passion to cool. 
 
 At present your heifer finds all her delight 
 In wandering o'er the green meadows at will, 
 
 In cooling her sides, when the sun is at height, 
 In the iciest pools of some mountainfed rill, 
 
 Or 'mid the dank osierbeds bounding in play 
 
 With the young calves, as sportive and skittish as they. 
 
 For unripe grapes to long is mere folly; soon, too, 
 Manytinted Autumnus with purple will dye 
 
 Thy clusters that now wear so livid a hue; 
 And so after thee, soon, her glances will fly, 
 
 For merciless Time to her count will -assign 
 
 The swift speeding years, as she takes them from thine. 
 
 And then will thy Lalage long for a lord, 
 Nor shrink from the secrets of conjugal joy; 
 
 By thee she will be, too, more fondly adored, 
 Than Pholoe's self, or than Chloris the coy, 
 
 Her beautiful shoulders resplendently white 
 
 As the moon, when it silvers the ocean by night; 
 
ODE V. TO A FRIEXD. 71 
 
 Or as Gnidian Gyges, whom were you to place 
 In the midst of a bevy of sunny-brow'd girls, 
 
 So boyish, so girlish at once is his face, 
 So silken the flow of his clustering curls, 
 
 Twould puzzle the skilfullest judge to declare, 
 
 If Gyges or they were more maidenly fair. 
 
72 ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS. 
 
 Ode VI. 
 
 TO SEPTIMIUS. 
 
 Septimius , that wouldst , I know , 
 With me to distant Gades go , 
 And visit the Cantab rian fell, 
 Whom all our triumphs cannot quell , 
 And even the sands barbarian brave, 
 Where ceaseless seethes the Moorish wave ; 
 
 May Tibur, that delightful haunt, 
 Rear'd by an Argive emigrant, 
 The tranquil haven be, I pray, 
 For my old age to wear away, 
 Oh, may it be the final bourne 
 To one with war and travel worn-! 
 
 But should the cruel Fates decree, 
 
 That this, my friend, shall never be, 
 
 Then to Galoesus, river sweet 
 
 To skin-clad flocks, will I retreat, 
 
 And those rich meads , whfcre sway of yore 
 
 Laconian Phalanthus bore. 
 
 In all the world no spot there is , 
 That wears for me a smile like this, 
 The honey of whose thymy fields 
 May vie with what Hymettus yields, 
 Where berries clustering every slope 
 May with Venafrum's greenest cope. 
 
ODE VI. TO SEPTIMIUS. 73 
 
 There Jove accords a lengthened spring, 
 And winters wanting winter's sting, 
 And sunny Aulon's broad incline 
 Such mettle puts into the vine , 
 Its clusters need not envy those, 
 Which fiery Falernum grows. 
 
 Thyself and me that spot invites , 
 Those pleasant fields , those sunny heights 
 And there, to life's last moments true, 
 Wilt thou with some fond tears bedew — 
 The last sad tribute lov.e can lend — 
 The ashes of thy poet friend. 
 
74 ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VAKUS. 
 
 Ode VII. 
 
 TO POMPEIUS VARUS. 
 
 Dear comrade, in the days when thou and I 
 With Brutus took the field, his perils bore, 
 Who hath restored thee, freely as of yore, 
 
 To thy home gods , and loved Italian sky , 
 
 Pompey, who wert the first my heart to share; 
 With whom full oft I've sped the lingering day, 
 Quaffing bright wine, as in our tents we lay, 
 
 With Syrian spikenard on our glistening hair? 
 
 With thee I shared Philippi's headlong flight, 
 My shield behind me left, which was not well," 
 When all that brave array was broke , and fell 
 
 In the vile dust full many a towering wight. 
 
 But me, poor trembler, swift Mercurius bore, 
 Wrapp'd in a cloud, through all the hostile din, 
 Whilst war's tumultuous eddies, closing in, 
 
 Swept thee away into the strife once more. 
 
 Then pay to Jove the feasts, that are his fee, 
 And stretch at ease these warworn limbs of thine 
 Beneath my laurel's shade; nor spare the wine 
 
 Which I have treasured through long years for thee. 
 
ODE VII. TO POMPEIUS VARUS. 75 
 
 Pour till it touch the shining goblet's rim 
 
 Care-drowning Massic: let rich ointments flow 
 From amplest conchs ! No measure we shall know ! 
 
 What ! shall we wreaths of oozy parsley trim , 
 
 Or simple myrtle? Whom will Venus send 
 
 To rule our revel? Wild my draughts shall be 
 As Thracian Bacchanals 1 , for 'tis sweet to me , 
 
 To lose my wits, when I regain my friend. 
 
76 ODE VIII. TO BARINE. 
 
 Ode VIII. 
 
 TO BARINE. 
 
 If e'er, in vengeance for thy faithlessness, 
 
 Heaven had but made thy charms one charm the less, 
 
 Blacken' d one tooth, Qr tarnish'd one brig-lit nail, 
 
 Then I, Barine, might believe thy tale. 
 
 But soon as thou hast laid all kinds of vows 
 
 And plighted oaths on those perfidious brows , 
 
 Thy beauty heightens into rarer dies, 
 
 And all our young men haunt thy steps with feverish eyes. 
 
 It profits thee, fair mischief, thus to spurn 
 
 The deep vows plighted by thy mother's urn, 
 
 By all the silent stars that gem the night, 
 
 And by the gods, whom death may never blight. 
 
 Venus herself doth smile to hear thee swear, 
 
 Smile the sweet nymphs beneath their sunny hair; 
 
 And Cupid, unrelenting boy, doth smile, 
 
 Pointing on gory stone his burning shafts the while. 
 
 To thee our youth's best flower in homage kneels, 
 
 New slaves bend daily at thy chariot-wheels; 
 
 And they, who oft have sworn to haunt no more 
 
 Thy fatal home , still linger as before. 
 
 Mothers all dread thee for their boys, and old 
 
 Fond fathers fear thy havoc with their gold; 
 
 The bane art thou of every new-made bride, 
 
 Lest thy soft air should waft her husband from her side. 
 
ODE IX. TO VALGIUS. 77 
 
 Ode IX. 
 
 TO VALGIUS. 
 
 Not always from the clouds are rains 
 
 Descending on the oozy plains , 
 
 Not always o'er the Caspian deep 
 
 Do gusts of angry tempest sweep, 
 
 Nor month on month, the long year through, 
 
 Dear Valgius, valued friend and true, 
 
 Is frost's benumbing mantle round 
 
 The high lands of Armenia wound; 
 
 Not always groan Garganus' oaks 
 
 Before the northwind's furious strokes, 
 
 Nor is the ash tree always seen, 
 
 Stript of its garniture of green; 
 
 Yet thou alway in strains forlorn 
 
 Thy Mystes dead dost fondly mourn, 
 
 Lamenting still at Hesper's rise , 
 
 And when the rapid sun he flies. 
 
 Remember, friend, that sage old man, 
 Whose years were thrice our common span, 
 Did not through all their lengthened tale 
 His loved Antilochus bewail: 
 Nor did his parents , lonely left , 
 Of their still budding darling reft, 
 Nor Phrygian sisters evermore 
 The slaughtered Troilus deplore. 
 
 Forbear, then, longer to complain, 
 Renounce this enervating strain, 
 And rather let us, thou and I, 
 Combine to sing in measures high 
 
ODE IX. TO VALGIUS. 
 
 The trophies newly won by great 
 Augustus Caesar for the state ; 
 Niphates 1 icy peak, the proud 
 Euphrates , added to the crowd 
 Of nations, that confess our power, 
 A humbler river from this hour, 
 And the Gelonians forced to rein 
 Their steeds within a bounded plain. 
 
ODE X. TO LICINIUS. 79 
 
 Ode X. 
 
 TO LICINIUS. 
 
 If thou wouldst live secure and free, 
 Thou wilt not keep far out at sea, 
 
 Licinius, evermore; 
 Nor, fearful of the gales that sweep 
 The ocean wide , too closely creep 
 
 Along the treacherous shore. 
 
 The man, who with a soul serene 
 Doth cultivate the golden mean, 
 
 Escapes alike from all 
 The squalor of a sordid cot, 
 And from the jealousies begot 
 
 By wealth in lordly hall. 
 
 The mighty pine is ever most 
 
 By wild winds sway'd about and tossVl, 
 
 With most disastrous crash 
 Fall high-topp'd towers, and ever, where 
 The mountain's summit points in air, 
 
 Do bolted lightnings flash. 
 
 When fortune frowns, a well train'd mind 
 Will hope for change; when she is kind, 
 
 A change no less will fear: 
 If haggard winters o'er the land 
 By Jove are spread, at his command 
 
 In time they disappear. 
 
80 ODE X. TO LICINIUS. 
 
 Though now they may, be sure of this, 
 Things will not always go amiss; 
 
 Not always bends in ire 
 Apollo his dread bow, but takes 
 The lyre and from her trance awakes 
 
 The Muse with touch of fire. 
 
 Though sorrows strike, and comrades shrink, 
 Yet never let your spirits sink , 
 
 But to yourself be true; 
 So wisely, when yourself you find 
 Scudding before too fair a wind, 
 
 Take in a reef or two. 
 
ODE XI. TO QUINTIUS HIRPIXUS. 
 
 31 
 
 Ode XL 
 
 TO QUINTIUS HIEPIXU-S. 
 
 What tlie warlike Cantabrian or Scyth mar design, 
 Dear Quintius Hirpinus, ue'er stay to divine, 
 With the broad Adriatic 'twixt them and yourself, 
 You surely may lay all your fears on the shelf. 
 
 And fret not your soul with uneasy desires 
 For the wants of a life, which but little requires; 
 Youth and beauty fade fast, and age sapless and hoar 
 Tastes of love and the sleep that comes lightly no more. 
 
 Spring flowers bloom not always fresh, fragrant, and bright, 
 The moon beams not always full-orb'd on the night; 
 Then wherefore should you, Avho are mortal, outwear 
 Your soul with a profitless burden of care? 
 
 Say, why should we not, flung at ease 'neath this pine, 
 
 Or a planetree's broad umbrage, quaff gaily our wine, 
 
 While the odours of Syrian nard, and the rose 
 
 Breathe sweet from locks tipp'd, and just tipp'd with Time's snows. 
 
 T is Bacchus, great Bacchus, alone has the art 
 To drive away cares , that are eating the heart. 
 What boy, then, shall best in the brook's deepest pool 
 Our cups of the fiery Falernian cool? 
 
 And who from her home shall fair Lyde seduce, 
 And bring to our revel that charming recluse? 
 Bid her haste with her ivory Lyre to the spot, 
 Tying up her brown hair in a plain Spartan knot. 
 
82 ODE XII. TO MiECENAS. 
 
 Ode XII. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Bid me not sing- to my nerveless string 
 The wars of Numantia long- and bloody, 
 
 Nor Hannibal dread, nor the ocean's bed 
 With the gore of our Punic foemen ruddy; 
 
 Nor the Lapithoe fierce , nor Hylseus flush'd 
 With wine, nor the earth-born brood Titanic, 
 
 Whom the death-dealing- hand of Alcides crush'd, 
 Though they smote the Saturnian halls with panic. 
 
 And thou, my Maecenas, shalt fitlier tell 
 The battles of Caesar in stateliest story, 
 
 Tell of kings, who defied us with menaces fell, 
 Led on through our streets in the triumph's glory. 
 
 My muse to Licymnia alone replies, 
 
 To her warbling voice, that divinely sways thee, 
 To the gleam of her flashing and lustrous eyes, 
 
 And true heart that passion for passion repays thee. 
 
 Ah, well doth the roundel beseem her charms, 
 Sparkling her wit, and, with loveliest vestals, 
 
 Most worthy is she to enlace her arms 
 In the dances of Dian's hilarious festals. 
 
ODE XII. TO MAECENAS. 83 
 
 Would you, friend, for Phrygia's hoarded gold, 
 
 Or all that Achsemenes self possesses, 
 Or e'en for what Araby's coffers hold, 
 
 Barter one lock of her clustering tresses, 
 
 While she bends down her throat to your burning kiss , 
 
 Or, fondly cruel, the joy denies you, 
 She'd have you snatch, or at times the bliss 
 
 Herself will snatch, and with joy surprise you? 
 
 6* 
 
84 ODE XIII. TO THE TREE BY WHOSE FALL 
 
 Ode XIII. 
 
 TO THE TREE BY WHOSE FALL HIS LIFE WAS 
 ENDANGERED. 
 
 Whate'er his station in the land, 
 
 In evil hour he planted thee, 
 And with a sacrilegious hand 
 
 He nursed, and trained thee up to be 
 The bane of his succeeding- race, 
 And of our hamlet the disgrace. 
 
 He strangled, ay, and with a zest, 
 
 His very father, and at dead 
 Of nigiit stole in upon his guest, 
 
 And stabb'd him sleeping in his bed; 
 Brew'd Colchian poisons in his time, 
 And practised every sort of crime. 
 
 All this he must have done — or could — 
 
 I'm sure , — the wretch , that stuck thee down, 
 
 Thou miserable stump of wood, 
 To topple on thy master's crown , 
 
 Who ne'er designed thee any harm, 
 
 Here on my own, my favourite farm. 
 
HIS LIFE WAS ENDANGERED. 85 
 
 No mortal due provision makes 
 
 'Gainst ills which any hour may fall; 
 
 The Carthaginian sailor quakes 
 To think of a Levantine squall, 
 
 But feels no terror for the fate, 
 
 That elsewhere may his bark await. 
 
 Our soldiers dread the arrows sped 
 By Parthians shooting- as they flee; 
 
 And in their turn the Parthians dread 
 The chains and keeps of Italy; 
 
 But death will tear, as now it tears, 
 
 Whole nations down at unawares. 
 
 How nearly in her realms of gloom 
 I dusky Proserpine had seen, 
 
 Seen iEacus dispensing- doom , 
 And the Elysian fields serene , 
 
 Heard Sappho to her lute complain 
 
 Of unrequited passion's pain; • 
 
 Heard thee, too, oh Alcaeus, tell, 
 Striking- the while thy golden lyre , 
 
 With fuller note and statelier swell, 
 The sorrows and disasters dire 
 
 Of warfare and the ocean deep, 
 
 And those that far in exile weep. 
 
 While shades round either singer throng- 
 And the deserved tribute pay 
 
 Of sacred silence to their song-, 
 Yet chiefly crowd to hear the lay 
 
 Of battles old to story known, 
 
 And haughty tyrants overthrown. 
 
86 ODE XIII. TO THE TREE BY WHOSE &C. 
 
 What wonder they, their ears to feast, 
 
 Should thickly throng, when by these lays 
 
 Entranced, the hundred-headed beast 
 Drops his black ears in sweet amaze, 
 
 And even the snakes are charmed, as they 
 
 Among the Furies' tresses play. 
 
 Nay even Prometheus, and the sire 
 Of Pelops, cheated of their pains, 
 
 Forget awhile their doom of ire 
 
 In listening to the wondrous strains ; 
 
 Nor doth Orion longer care 
 
 To hunt the lynx or lion there. 
 
ODE XIV. TO POSTHUMUS. 87 
 
 Ode XIV. 
 
 TO POSTHUMUS. 
 
 Ah Posthumus, the years, the fleeting years 
 
 Still onwards , onwards glide ; 
 
 Nor mortal virtue may 
 
 Time's wrinkling lingers stay, 
 
 Nor Age's sure advance, nor Death's all-conquering stride. 
 
 Hope not by daily hecatombs of bulls 
 
 From Pluto to redeem 
 
 Thy life , who holds thrice vast 
 
 Geryon fetter'd fast , 
 
 And Tityus, by the waves of yonder rueful stream. 
 
 Sad stream, we all are doom'd one day to cross," 
 
 Ay, all that live by bread, 
 
 Whate'er our lot may be, 
 
 Great lords of high degree , 
 
 Alike with peasant churls, who scantily are fed. 
 
 In vain shall we war's bloody conflict shun, 
 
 And the hoarse scudding gale 
 
 Of Adriatic seas, 
 
 Or fly the southern breeze, 
 
 That through the Autumn hours wafts pestilence and bale. 
 
88 
 
 ODE XIV. TO POSTHUMUS. 
 
 For all must view Cocytus' pitchy tide 
 
 Meandering slow, and see 
 
 The accursed Danaids moil, 
 
 And that dread stone recoil, 
 
 Sad Sisyphus is doom'd to upheave eternally. 
 
 Land, home, and winsome wife must all be left; 
 
 And cypresses abhorr'd, 
 
 Alone of all the trees 
 
 That now your fancy please, 
 
 Shall shade the dust of him, who was their sometime lord. 
 
 Then, too, your long imprison'd Caecuban 
 
 A worthier heir shall drain, 
 
 And with a lordlier wine, 
 
 Than at the feasts divine 
 
 Of pontiffs flows, your floor in wassailry shall stain. 
 
ODE XV. OX THE PREVAILIXG LUXURY. 89 
 
 Ode XV. 
 
 ON THE PREVAILING LUXURY. 
 
 Soon regal piles each rood of land 
 Will from the farmer's ploughshare take 
 
 Soon ponds he seen on every hand 
 More spacious than the Lucrine lake. 
 
 Soon the unwedded plane displace 
 
 The vine-wreathed elm; and violet bed 
 
 And myrtle hush, and all the race 
 
 Of scented shrubs their fragrance shed, 
 
 Where fertile olive thickets made 
 Their owner rich in days of old; 
 
 And laurels with thick-woven shade 
 At bay the scorching sunbeams hold. 
 
 It was not so, when Romulus 
 
 Our greatness fostered in its prime , 
 
 Nor did our great forefathers thus , 
 In unshorn Cato's simple time. 
 
 Man's private fortunes then were low, 
 The public income great; in these 
 Good times no long drawn portico 
 
 Caught for its lord the northern breeze. 
 
90 ODE XV. ON THE PREVAILING LUXURY 
 
 Nor did the laws our sires permit 
 Sods dug at random to despise 
 
 As for their daily homes unfit; 
 And yet they bade our cities rise 
 
 More stately at the public charge , 
 And did, to their religion true, 
 
 The temples of the gods enlarge, 
 
 And with fair-sculptured stones renew- 
 
ODE XVI. TO GROSPHUS. 91 
 
 Ode XVI. 
 
 TO GROSPHUS. 
 
 For ease he doth the gods implore , 
 
 Who , tossing- on the wide 
 
 Egean billows, sees the black clouds hide 
 The moon, and the sure stars appear no more, 
 
 The shipman's course to guide. 
 
 For ease the sons of Thracia cry, 
 
 In battle uncontroll'd, 
 
 For ease the graceful-quivered Median bold, 
 That ease, which purple, Grosphus, cannot buy, 
 
 Nor wealth of gems or gold. 
 
 For hoarded treasure cannot keep 
 
 Disquietudes at bay, 
 
 Nor can the consul's lictor drive away 
 The brood of dark solicitudes, that sweep 
 
 Round gilded ceilings gay. 
 
 He lives on little , and is blest , 
 
 On whose plain board the bright 
 
 Saltcellar shines, which was his sires' delight, 
 Nor terrors , nor cupidity's unrest 
 
 Disturb his slumbers light. 
 
 Why should we still project and plan, 
 
 We creatures of an hour? 
 
 Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour? 
 Where is the exile, who, since time began, 
 
 To fly from self had power? 
 
92 ODE XVI. TO GROSrHUS. 
 
 Fell<Bare climbs brazen galleys' sides; 
 
 Nor troops of horse can fly 
 
 Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay, 
 Swifter than Eurus, when he madly rides 
 
 The clouds along the sky. 
 
 Careless what lies beyond to know, 
 
 And turning to the best 
 
 The present, meet life's bitters with a jest, 
 And smile them down; since nothing here below 
 
 Is altogether blest. 
 
 In manhood's prime Achilles died , 
 
 Tithonus by the slow 
 
 Decay of age was wasted to a show, 
 And Time may what it hath to thee denied 
 
 On me perchance bestow. 
 
 Round thee low countless herds and kine 
 
 Of Sicily; the mare 
 
 Apt for the chariot paws for thee the air, 
 And Afric's costliest dyes incarnadine 
 
 The wools which thou dost wear. 
 
 To me a farm of modest size , 
 
 And slender vein of song, 
 
 Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong, 
 Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise 
 
 The base malignant throng. 
 
 
ODE XVII. TO MiECENAS. 93 
 
 Ode XVII. 
 
 TO M^CENAS. 
 
 Why wilt thou kill me with thy boding- fears? 
 
 Why, oh Maecenas, why? 
 Before thee lies a train of happy years; 
 
 Yes , nor the gods nor I 
 Could brook that thou shouldst first be laid in dust, 
 That art my stay, my glory, and my trust! 
 
 Ah, if untimely Fate should snatch thee hence, 
 
 Thee, of my soul a part, 
 Why should I linger on, with deaden 1 d sense, 
 
 And ever-aching heart, 
 A worthless fragment of a fallen shrine? 
 No , no , one day shall see thy death and mine ! 
 
 Think not, that I have sworn a bootless oath; 
 
 Yes , we shall go , shall go , 
 Hand link'd in hand, whene'er thou leadest, both 
 
 The last sad road below! 
 Me nor the fell Chimaera's breath of fire , 
 Nor hundred-handed Gyges, though in ire 
 
 He rise against me, from thy side shall sever; 
 
 For in such sort it hath 
 Pleased the dread Fates, and Justice potent ever, 
 
 To interweave our path. 
 Beneath whatever aspect thou wert born , 
 Libra, or Scorpion fierce, or Capricorn, 
 
94 ODE XVII. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 The blustering tyrant of the western deep , 
 
 This well I know, my friend, 
 Our stars in wondrous wise one orbit keep , 
 
 And in one radiance blend. 
 From thee were Saturn's baleful rays afar 
 Averted by great Jove's refulgent star, 
 
 And His hand stay'd Fate's downward-swooping wing, 
 
 When thrice with glad acclaim 
 The teeming theatre was heard to ring, 
 
 And thine the honour'd name : 
 So had the falling timber laid me low, 
 But Pan in mercy warded off the blow, 
 
 Pan who keeps watch o'er easy souls like mine. 
 
 Remember, then, to rear 
 In gratitude to Jove a votive shrine , 
 
 And slaughter many a steer, 
 Whilst I, as fits, an humbler tribute pay, 
 And a meek lamb upon his altar lay. 
 
ODE XVIII. TO A MISER. 95 
 
 Ode XVIII. 
 
 TO A MISER. 
 
 Within ray dwelling you behold 
 
 Xor ivory, nor roof of gold; 
 
 There no Hymettian rafters weigh 
 
 On columns from far Africa; 
 
 Nor Attalus' imperial chair 
 
 Have I usurp'd, a spurious heir, 
 
 Xor client dames of high degree 
 
 Laconian purples spin for me; 
 
 But a true heart and genial vein 
 
 Of wit are mine, and great men deign 
 
 To court my company, though poor. 
 
 For nought beyond do I implore 
 
 The gods, nor crave my potent friend 
 
 A larger bounty to extend, 
 
 With what he gave completely blest, 
 
 My happy little Sabine nest. 
 
 Day treads down day, and sinks amain 
 And new moons only wax to wane , 
 Yet you, upon death's very brink, 
 Of piling marbles only think, 
 That yet are in the quarry's womb , 
 And all unmindful of the tomb , 
 Rear gorgeous mansions everywhere; 
 Nay, as though earth too bounded were , 
 With bulwarks huge thrust back the sea, 
 That chafes and breaks on Baise. 
 
96 ODE XVIII. TO A MISER. 
 
 What though you move the ancient bound, 
 That marks your humble neighbour's ground, 
 And avariciously o'erleap 
 The limits right should bid you keep? 
 Where lies your gain, that driven from home 
 Both wife and husband forth must roam, 
 Bearing their household gods close press'd 
 With squalid babes upon their breast? 
 Still for the man of wealth, 'mid all 
 His pomp and pride of place , the hall 
 Of sure- devouring Orcus waits 
 With its inevitable gates. 
 
 Then why this ceaseless vain unrest? 
 Earth opens her impartial breast 
 To prince and beggar both; nor might 
 Gold e'er tempt Hell's grim satellite 
 To waft astute Prometheus o'er 
 From yonder ghastly Stygian shore. 
 Proud Tantalus and all his race 
 He curbs within that rueful place ; 
 The toil worn wretch, who cries for ease, 
 Invoked or not, he hears and frees. 
 
ODE XTX. TO BACCHUS. 97 
 
 Ode XIX. 
 
 TO BACCHUS. 
 
 Bacchus I "ve seen, (no fable is my song!) 
 
 Where far among the rocks the hills are rooted, 
 
 His strains dictating- to a listening- throng- 
 
 Of nymphs, and prick-eared Satyrs. cloven- footed! 
 
 Evoe ! The dread is on my soul even noAv , 
 
 Fill'd Avith the god my breast is heaving- wildly! 
 
 Evoe! Oh spare, Lyseus, spare me, thou, 
 
 And o'er me wield thine awful thyrsus mildly! 
 
 Xow may I dare to sing- of Bacchants bold, 
 To sing- of wine in fountains redly rushing-, 
 
 Of milky streams, and honey's. liquid g-old 
 
 From hollow trunks in woods primeval gushing. 
 
 Xow may I chant her honours , too , thy bride , 
 Who high among the stars is throned in glory . 
 
 The halls of Pentheus shattered in their pride, 
 And of Lycurgus the disastrous story. 
 
 Thee own as lord great rivers, barbarous seas; 
 
 Thou, where afar the mountain peaks are shining, 
 Flush'd with the grape dost revel, there at ease 
 
 Thy Bacchant's locks unliarm'd with vipers twininj 
 
ODE XIX. TO BACCHUS. 
 
 Thou, when the banded giants, impious crew! 
 
 By mountain piled on mountain-top were scaling 
 Thy sire's domains, didst hurl back Rhcecus, through 
 
 Thy lion's claws, and jawbone fell prevailing. 
 
 Though fitter for the dance, and mirth, and jest, 
 Than for the battle's deadly shock reputed, 
 
 Thou didst approve thyself, o'er all the rest 
 Alike for peace or warfare aptly suited. 
 
 Thee, gloriously bedeck'd with horn of gold, 
 
 With gently wagging tail soothed Cerberus greeted. 
 
 And lick'd thy limbs and feet with tongue threefold, 
 As from his shady realm thy steps retreated. 
 
ODE XX. TO MAECENAS. 99 
 
 Ode XX. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 On pinion newly plumed and strong 
 
 I'll cleave the liquid air 
 Predestinate, true child of song! 
 
 A double form to wear. 
 Earth shall not keep me from the skies, 
 
 I'll pierce the smoke of towns, 
 And, soaring far aloft, despise 
 
 Their envy and their frowns. 
 
 Though cradled at a poor man's hearth , 
 
 His offspring, I shall not 
 Go down to mix with common earth 
 
 Forgetting and forgot. 
 No! I, whom thou, Mascenas dear, 
 
 Dost mark with thy esteem, 
 Shall never pine, a phantom drear, 
 
 By sad Cocytus 1 stream. 
 
 Even now I leel the change begin! 
 
 And see , along my thighs 
 It creeps and creeps, the wrinkling skin 
 
 In sturdy swanlike guise. 
 My body all above assumes 
 
 The bird, and white as snow 
 Along my shoulders airy plumes 
 
 Down to my fingers grow. 
 
100 ODE XX. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Now swiftlier borne on pinions bold. 
 
 Than Icarus of yore, 
 The Bosphorus shall I behold, 
 
 And hear its billows roar: 
 Shall o'er Getulia's whirling sands, 
 
 Canorous bird, career, 
 And view Hyperborean lands 
 
 From heaven's own azure clear. 
 
 My fame the Colchian, and forlorn 
 
 Gelonian yet shall know, 
 The Dacian, too, who seems to scorn 
 
 But dreads his Marsic foe. 
 The Spaniard of an after time 
 
 My minstrel power shall own. 
 And I be hail'd a bard sublime 
 
 By him that drinks the Rhone. 
 
 Then sing- no dirge above my bier, 
 
 No grief be idly spent! 
 Dishonour lies in every tear, 
 
 Disgrace in each lament. 
 All clamours loud of woe forbear! 
 
 Respect my nobler doom , 
 And those superfluous honours spare . 
 
 Which load a vulgar tomb ! 
 

 BOOK III. 
 
ODE I. IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 103 
 
 Ode I. 
 
 IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Ye rabble rout, avaunt! 
 
 Your vulgar din give o'er, 
 Whilst I, the. Muses 1 own hierophant, 
 To the pure ears of youths and virgins chant 
 
 In strains unheard before! 
 
 Great kings, whose frown doth make 
 
 Their crouching vassals quake , 
 Themselves must own 
 The mastering sway of Jove, imperial god , 
 
 Who from the crash of giants overthrown 
 Triumphant honours took, and by his nod 
 
 Shakes all creation's zone. 
 
 Whate'er our rank may be, 
 We all partake one common destiny! 
 
 In fair expanse of soil , 
 Teeming with rich returns of wine and oil , 
 
 His neighbour one outvies; 
 
 Another claims to rise 
 
 To civic dignities, 
 Because of ancestry, and noble birth, 
 Or lame, or proved preeminence of worth, 
 
104 ODE I. IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Or troops of clients, clamorous in his cause; 
 
 Still Fate doth grimly stand, 
 
 And with impartial hand 
 The lots of lofty and of lowly draws 
 
 From that capacious urn, 
 Whence every name that lives is shaken in its turn. 
 
 To him, above whose guilty head, 
 
 Suspended by a thread, 
 The naked sword is hung for evermore, 
 
 Not feasts Sicilian shall 
 
 With all their cates recal 
 That zest the simplest fare could once inspire; 
 Nor song of birds, nor music of the lyre 
 
 Shall his lost sleep restore : 
 
 But gentle sleep shuns not 
 
 The rustic's lowly cot, 
 Nor mossy bank, o'ercanopied with trees, 
 Nor Tempe's leafy vale stirr'd .by the western breeze. 
 ! 
 
 ! 
 
 The man, who lives content with whatsoe'er 
 Sufficeth for his needs, 
 
 The storm-toss'd ocean vexeth not with care , 
 Nor the fierce tempest which Arcturus breeds , 
 
 When in the sky he sets , 
 Nor that which Hoedus, at his rise, begets: 
 !■ Nor will he grieve , although 
 
 His vines be all laid low- 
 Beneath the driving hail , 
 Nor though, by reason of the drenching rain, 
 Or heat, that shrivels up his fields like fire, 
 Or fierce extremities of winter's ire , 
 Blight shall o'erwhclm his fruit-trees and his grain. 
 And all his farm's delusive promise fail. 
 
 I 
 
ODE I. IN PRAISE OF CONTENTMENT. 105 
 
 The fish are conscious that a narrower bound 
 
 Is drawn the seas around 
 By masses huge huiTd down into the deep; 
 There at the bidding of a lord, for whom 
 Not all the land he owns is ample room, 
 Do the contractor and his labourers heap 
 Vast piles of stone, the ocean back to sweep. 
 But let him climb in pride, 
 That lord of halls unblest, 
 Up to his lordly nest, 
 Yet ever by bis side 
 
 Climb Terror and Unrest ; 
 Within the brazen galley's sides 
 
 Care, ever wakeful, flits, 
 And at his back, when forth in state he rides. 
 Her withering shadow sits. 
 
 If thus it fare with all ; 
 If neither marbles from the Phrygian mine 
 Nor star-bright robes of purple and of pall , 
 Nor the Falernian vine, 
 Nor costliest balsams , fetch 1 d from farthest hid , 
 Can soothe the restless mind; 
 Why should I choose 
 To rear on high, as modern spendthrifts use, 
 A lofty hall , might be the home for kings . 
 With portals vast, for Malice to abuse, 
 Or Envy make her theme to point a tale; 
 
 Or why for wealth, which newborn trouble brings. 
 Exchange my Sabine vale? 
 
100 ODE II. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 
 
 Ode II. 
 
 TO HIS COMPANIONS. 
 
 In war's stern school our youth should be 
 
 Steel'd stoutly to endure 
 The ills, which sharp necessity 
 
 Inflicts upon the poor; 
 To make the Parthians fly in fear 
 Before the terrors of their spear; 
 
 To live alert at danger's call 
 Encamp'd on heath or down; 
 
 Then as they view him from the wall 
 Of their beleaguer'd town, 
 
 With sighs the warring monarch's dame 
 
 And virgin daughter shall exclaim: 
 
 i 
 
 "Oh grant, ye Gods, our royal lord, 
 
 Unskill'd in war's array, 
 Provoke not, by his bootless sword, 
 
 Yon lion to the fray, 
 Who rushes with infuriate roar 
 Through carnage, dropping gouts of gore!' 
 
 For our dear native land to die 
 
 Is glorious and sweet; 
 And death the coward slaves that fly 
 
 Pursues with steps as fleet, 
 Nor spares the loins and backs of those 
 I nwarlike youths, who shun their foes. 
 
 
ODE II. TO HIS COMPANIONS. 107 
 
 Worth, all-indifferent to the spurns 
 
 Of vulgar souls profane , 
 The honours wears, it proudly earns, 
 
 Unclouded by a stain; 
 Nor grasps, nor lays the fasces down, 
 As fickle mobs may smile or frown. 
 
 Worth, which' heaven's gate to those unbars 
 
 Who never should have died, 
 A pathway cleaves among the stars, 
 
 To meaner souls denied, 
 Soaring in scorn far far away 
 From vulgar crowds and sordid clay. 
 
 For faithful silence too there is 
 
 A guerdon sure: whoe'er 
 Has once divulged the mysteries 
 
 Of Ceres' shrine, shall ne'er 
 Partake my roof, nor yet shall he 
 In the same vessel sail with me. 
 
 For oft has Jove, when slighted, swept 
 
 Away with sons of shame 
 The souls which have their whiteness kept, 
 
 And punishment, though lame 
 Of foot, has rarely fail'd to smite 
 The knave, how swift soe'er his flight. 
 
108 
 
 ODE III. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 
 
 Ode III. 
 
 THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 
 
 He that is just, and firm of will 
 Doth not- before the fury quake 
 Of mobs that instigate to ill, 
 Nor hath the tyrant's menace skill 
 His fixed resolve to shake; 
 
 Nor Auster, at whose wild command 
 
 The Adriatic billows dash, 
 Nor Jove's dread thunder-launching hand, 
 Yea, if the globe should fall, he'll stand 
 
 Serene amidst the crash. 
 
 By constancy like this sustain'd, 
 
 Pollux of yore , and Hercules 
 The starry eminences gain'd, 
 Where Caesar, with lips purple-stain'd. 
 
 Quaffs nectar, stretch'd at ease. 
 
 Thou, by this power, Sire Bacchus, led. 
 To bear the yoke thy pards didst school 
 
 Through this same power Quirinus fled, 
 
 By Mars' own horses charioted. 
 The Acherontine pool. 
 
 : 
 
ODE III. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 
 
 109 
 
 What time the gods to council came , 
 And Juno spoke with gracious tone, 
 "That umpire lewd and doom'd to shame 
 And his adulterous foreign dame 
 Troy, Troy have overthrown; 
 
 "Troy doom'd to perish in its pride 
 By chaste Minerva and by me, 
 
 Her people , and their guileful guide , 
 
 Since false Laomedon denied 
 The gods their promised fee. 
 
 "The Spartan wanton's shameless guest 
 
 No longer flaunts in brave array, 
 Nor screen'd by Hector's valiant breast, 
 Doth Priam's perjured house arrest 
 My Argives in the fray. 
 
 "Protracted by our feuds no more, 
 
 The Avar is quell'd. So I abate 
 Mine anger, and to Mars restore 
 Him, whom the Trojan priestess bore, 
 The grandchild of my hate. 
 
 "Him will I suffer to attain 
 
 These realms of light, these blest abodes 
 The juice of nectar pure to drain, 
 And be enroll'd amid the train 
 
 Of the peace-breathing gods. 
 
 "As long as the broad rolling sea 
 
 Shall roar 'twixt Ilion and Rome, 
 Where'er these wandering exiles be, 
 There let them rule, be happy, free; 
 Whilst Priam's, Paris' tomb 
 
110 ODE III. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. 
 
 "Is trodden o'er by roving kine, 
 
 And wild beasts there securely breed, 
 
 The Capitol afar may shine , 
 
 And Rome, proud Rome her laws assign 
 Unto the vanquish'd Mede. 
 
 "Yes, let her spread her name of fear, 
 
 To farthest shores; where central waves 
 Part Africa from Europe , where 
 Nile's swelling current half the year 
 The plains with plenty laves. 
 
 "Still let her scorn to search with pain 
 For, gold, the earth hath wisely hid, 
 
 Nor strive to wrest with hands profane 
 
 To mortal use and mortal gain 
 What is to man forbid. 
 
 "Let earth's remotest regions still 
 
 Her conquering arms to glory call, 
 Where scorching suns the long day fill, 
 Where mists and snows and tempests chill 
 Hold reckless bacchanal. 
 
 "But let Quirinus' sons beware, 
 
 For they are doom'd to sure annoy, 
 Should they in foolish fondness e'er 
 Or vaunting pride the homes repair 
 Of their ancestral Troy. 
 
 "In evil hour should Troy once more 
 Arise, it shall be crush'd anew, 
 
 By hosts that o'er it stride in gore , 
 
 By me conducted , as of yore , 
 Jove's spouse and sister too. 
 
ODE III. THE APOTHEOSIS OF ROMULUS. Ill 
 
 "Thrice rear a brazen wall, and though 
 
 Apollo's self his aidance lent, 
 Thrice shall my Argives lay it low, 
 Thrice shall the captive wife in woe 
 Her lord and babes lament!" 
 
 But whither would'st thou, Muse? Unmeet 
 For jocund lyre are themes like these. 
 
 Shalt thou the talk of gods repeat, 
 
 Debasing by thy strains effete 
 Such lofty mysteries? 
 
112 ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 
 
 Ode IV. 
 
 TO CALLIOPE. 
 
 Oh queen Calliope, from heaven descend. 
 
 And on the fife prolong 
 
 Thy descant sweet and strong-, 
 Or with the lyre, if more it like thee, blend 
 
 Thy thrilling voice in song! 
 
 Hark! Or is this but frenzy's pleasing dream? 
 
 Through groves I seem to stray 
 
 Of consecrated bay, 
 Where voices mingle with the babbling stream 
 
 And whispering breezes play. 
 
 When I had stray'd a child on Vultur's steep, 
 
 Beyond Apulia's bound, 
 
 Which was my native ground , 
 Was I, fatigued with play, beneath a heap 
 
 Of fresh leaves sleeping founds 
 
 Strewn by the storied doves; and wonder fell 
 
 On all, their nest who keep 
 
 On Acherontia's steep , 
 Or in Forentum's low rich pastures dwell, 
 
 Or Ban tine woodlands deep: 
 
ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 113 
 
 That safe from bears and adders in such plac< 
 
 I lay, and slumbering smiled, 
 
 O'erstrewn with myrtle wild 
 And laurel, by the gods' peculiar grace 
 
 No craven-hearted child. 
 
 Yours am I, oh ye Muses, yours, whene'er 
 
 The Sabine peaks I scale; 
 
 Or cool Praeneste's vale, 
 Or Tibur's slopes, or Baiae's waters fair 
 
 With happy heart I hail. 
 
 Unto your roundels and your fountains vow'd, 
 
 Philippi's rout, the tree 
 
 Of doom o'erwhelm'd not me , 
 Nor Palinurus 'mid the breakers loud 
 
 Of the Sicilian sea. 
 
 Unshrinkingly, so you be only near, 
 
 The Bosphorus I'll brave, 
 
 Nor quail, ho w e'er it rave, 
 Assyria's burning sands I'll dare, nor fear 
 
 In them to find a grave. 
 
 Shielded by you, I'll visit Britain's shore 
 
 To strangers ruthless ever, 
 
 Front the Gelonian quiver, 
 The Concan, too, who joys in horses' gore, 
 
 And Scythia's icy river. 
 
 Unto great Caesar's self ye lend new life 
 
 In grot Pierian, when 
 
 He has disposed his men 
 Among the towns, to rest from battle-strife, 
 
 And yearns for peace again. 
 
114 ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 
 
 From you flow gentle counsels, and most dear 
 
 Such counsels are to you. 
 
 We know, how He o'erthrew 
 By His clown-swooping bolts those monsters drear. 
 
 The impious Titan crew; 
 
 He who doth earth's unmoving mass control, 
 
 The tempest-shaken main, 
 
 Throng'd towns , the realms of pain 
 And gloom, and doth with even justice sole 
 
 O'er gods and mortals reign. 
 
 When he beheld them first, these brothers stark, 
 
 Proud in their strength of arm, 
 
 Crowding in hideous swarm 
 To pile up Pelion on Olympus dark, 
 
 Jove shudder'd with alarm. 
 
 But what could stout Typhosus, Mimas do? 
 
 Or what, for all his might, 
 
 Porphyrin's threatening height, 
 What Proetus, or Enceladus, that threw 
 
 Uprooted trees, in fight 
 
 Against great Pallas' ringing aegis dash'd, 
 
 What could they all essay? 
 
 Here, eager for the fray, 
 Stood Vulcan, there dame Juno unabash'd, 
 
 And he who ne'er doth lay 
 
 His bow aside, who laves his locks unshorn 
 
 In Castaly's pure dew, 
 
 Divine Apollo, who 
 Haunts Lycia's woodland glades, in Delos born, 
 
 In Patara worshipp'd too. 
 
ODE IV. TO CALLIOPE. 115 
 
 Unreasoning" strength by its own weight must fall 
 
 To strength with wisdom blent 
 
 Force by the gods is lent, 
 Who hold in scorn that strength, which is on all 
 
 That's impious intent. 
 
 See hundred-handed Gyges helpless lie, 
 
 To make my maxim good , 
 
 Orion too , that would 
 Lay ruffian hands on chaste Diana, by 
 
 Her virgin shafts subdued. 
 
 Upheaved above the monsters she begot, 
 
 Earth wails her children whirl'd 
 
 To Orcus 1 lurid world, 
 By vengeful bolts, and the swift fire hath not 
 
 Pierced iEtna o'er it hurl'd. 
 
 Nor does the vulture e'er, sin's warder grim, 
 
 Lewd Tityus' liver quit, 
 
 But o'er him still doth sit; 
 Pirithous, too, lies fetter'd, limb to limb 
 
 By chains three hundred knit. 
 
 8* 
 
116 . ODE V. THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 
 
 Ode V. 
 
 THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 
 
 When through the heavens his thunders blare 
 We think , that Jove is monarch there , 
 So now Augustus too shall be 
 Esteem 1 d a present deity, 
 Since Britons he and Persians dread 
 Hath to his empire subjected. 
 
 Has any legionary, who 
 His falchion under Crassus drew, 
 A bride barbarian stoop'd to wed, 
 And life with her ignobly led? 
 And can there be the man so base 
 Of Marsian or Apulian race, 
 (Oh, on the Senate be the blame, 
 Oh, on our tainted morals shame!) 
 As with his spouse's sire, his foe, 
 And in a foeman's camp , to grow 
 To age beneath some Median King, 
 The Shields no more remembering, 
 Nor yet the Roman dress or name, 
 Nor Vesta's never-dying flame, 
 Whilst still unscathed stands Jove , and Rome , 
 His city, and his only home? 
 
 Ah well he f ear'd such shame for us , 
 The brave far-seeing Regulus, 
 
ODE V. THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 117 
 
 When he the vile conditions spurn'd, 
 That might to precedent be turn'd, 
 With ruin and disaster fraught 
 To after times, should they be taught 
 Another creed than this — "They die 
 Unwept, who brook captivity!" 
 
 "I've seen," he cried, "our standards hung 
 In Punic fanes, our weapons wrung 
 From Roman hands without a blow; 
 Our citizens, I've seen them go, 
 With arms behind their free backs tied, 
 Gates I have seen flung open wide, 
 Ay, Roman troops I've seen, disgraced 
 To till the plains they had laid waste! 
 
 "Will he return more brave and bold, 
 The soldier you redeem with gold? 
 You add but loss unto disgrace. 
 Its native whiteness once efface 
 With curious dyes; you can no more 
 That whiteness to the wool restore; 
 Nor is true valour, once debased, 
 In souls corrupt to be replaced! 
 
 "If from the tangled meshes freed, 
 The stag will battle, then indeed 
 May he conspicuous valour show , 
 Who trusted the perfidious foe, — 
 He smite upon some future field 
 The Carthaginian, who could yield 
 In fear of death his arms to be 
 Bound up with thongs submissively! 
 Content to draw his caitiff breath, 
 Nor feel such life is worse than death! 
 
118 ODE V. THE PRAISE OF VALOUR. 
 
 Oh shame! Oh mighty Carthage, thou 
 On Rome's fallen glories towerest now!" 
 
 From his chaste wife's embrace, they say, 
 And babes, he tore himself away, 
 As he had forfeited the right 
 To clasp them as a freeman might; 
 Then sternly on the ground he bent 
 His manly brow; and so he lent 
 Decision to the senate's voice, 
 That paused and waver'd in its choice, 
 And forth the noble exile strode , 
 Whilst friends in anguish lined the road. 
 
 Noble indeed! for, though he knew 
 What tortures that barbarian crew 
 Had ripe for him, he waved aside 
 The kin that did his purpose chide, 
 The thronging crowds, that strove to stay 
 His passage, with an air as gay, 
 As though at close of some decree 
 Upon a client's lawsuit he 
 Its dreary coil were leaving there, 
 To green Venafrum to repair, 
 Or to Tarentum's breezy shore, 
 Where Spartans built their town of yore. 
 
ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS. 119 
 
 Ode VI. 
 
 TO THE ROMANS. 
 
 Ye Romans, ye, though guiltless shall 
 Dread expiation make for all 
 
 The laws your sires have broke , 
 Till ye repair with loving pains 
 The gods 1 dilapidated fanes , 
 
 Their statues grimed with smoke! 
 
 Ye rule t\\e world, because that ye 
 Confess the gods' supremacy, 
 
 Hence all your grandeur grows! 
 The gods, in vengeance for neglect, 
 Hesperia's wretched land have wreck'd 
 
 Beneath unnumbered woes. 
 
 Twice have Monseses, and the hordes 
 Of Pacorus withstood the swords 
 
 Of our ill-omen'd host; 
 No more in meagre torques equipp'd, 
 But deck'd with spoils from Romans stripp'd 
 
 They of our ruin boast. 
 
 Dacian and Ethiop have well nigh 
 Undone our Rome distracted by 
 
 Intestine feud and fray; 
 This by his fleet inspiring fear, 
 That by his shafts, which far and near 
 
 Spread havoc and dismay. 
 
120 ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS. 
 
 Our times, in sin prolific, first 
 
 The marriage-bed with taint have cursed, 
 
 And family and home; 
 This is the fountain-head of all 
 The sorrows and the ills that fall 
 
 On Romans and on Rome. 
 
 The ripening virgin joys to learn 
 In the Ionic dance to turn 
 
 And bend with plastic limb; 
 Still but a child, with evil gleams 
 Incestuous love's unhallowed dreams 
 
 Before her fancy swim. 
 
 Straight, in her husband's wassail hours, 
 She seeks more youthful paramours, 
 
 And little recks, on whom 
 She may her lawless joys bestow 
 By stealth, when all the lamps burn low, 
 
 And darkness shrouds the room. 
 
 Yea, she will on a summons fly, 
 Nor is her spouse unconscious why , 
 
 To some rich broker's arms, 
 Or some sea-captain's fresh from Spain, 
 With wealth to buy her shame, and gain 
 
 Her mercenary charms. 
 
 They did not spring from sires like these 
 The noble youth, who dyed the seas 
 
 With Carthaginian gore, 
 Who great Antiochus o'ercame, 
 And Pyrrhus, and the dreaded name 
 
 Of Hannibal of yore; 
 
 . 
 
ODE VI. TO THE ROMANS. 121 
 
 But they, of rustic warriors wight 
 The manly offspring, learned to smite 
 
 The soil with Sahine spade, 
 And faggots they had cut to bear 
 Home from the forest, whensoe'er 
 
 An austere mother bade; 
 
 What time the sun began to change 
 The shadows through the mountain range 
 
 And took the yoke away 
 From the overwearied oxen, and 
 His parting car proclaim'd at hand 
 
 The kindliest hour of day. 
 
 How Time doth in its flight debase 
 Whate'er it finds? Our fathers 1 race, 
 
 More deeply versed in ill 
 Than were their sires, hath borne us yet 
 More wicked, duly to beget 
 
 A race more vicious still. 
 
122 ODE VII. TO ASTER1E. 
 
 Ode VII. 
 
 TO ASTERIE. 
 
 Why weep , Asterie , for the youth , 
 That soul of constancy and truth, 
 
 Whom from Bithynia's shore 
 Rich with its wares , with gentle wing 
 The west winds shall in early spring 
 To thy embrace restore? 
 
 Driven by the southern gales, when high 
 Mad Capra's star ascends the sky, 
 
 To Oricum, he keeps 
 Sad vigils through the freezing nights, 
 And, thinking of his lost delights 
 
 With thee, thy Gyges weeps. 
 
 Yet in a thousand artful ways 
 His hostess 1 messenger essays 
 
 To tempt him , urging how 
 Chloe — for such her name — is doom'd 
 By fires like thine to be consumed, 
 
 And sigh as deep as thou; 
 
 Narrating, how by slanders vile 
 A woman's falsehood did beguile 
 
 The credulous Proetus on, 
 To hurry Avith untimely haste 
 Into the toils of death the chaste, 
 
 Too chaste Bellerophon. 
 
ODE VII. TO ASTERIE. 123 
 
 Of Peleus then he tells , who thus 
 Was nigh consign'd to Tartarus, 
 
 Because his coldness shamed 
 Magnessia's queen Hippolyte , 
 And hints at stories craftily 
 
 To sap his virtue framed. 
 
 In vain! For he, untouch'd as yet, 
 Is deafer than the rocks that fret 
 
 The Icarian waves; — but thou, 
 Keep watch upon thy fancy too, 
 Nor to Enipeus there undue 
 
 Attractiveness allow! 
 
 Though no one on the Martian Mead 
 Can turn and wind a mettled steed 
 
 So skilfully as he , 
 Nor any breast the Tuscan tide , 
 And dash its tawny waves aside 
 
 With such celerity. 
 
 At nightfall shut your doors, nor then 
 Look down into the street again, 
 
 When quavering fifes complain; 
 And though he call thee , as he will , 
 Unjust, unkind, unfeeling, still 
 
 Inflexible remain ! 
 
t24 ODE VIII. TO MAECENAS; 
 
 Ode VIII. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 "Why a bachelor such as myself should disport 
 On the Kalends of March, what these garlands import 
 What the censer with incense fill'd full, you enquire, 
 And the green turf, with charcoal laid ready to fire? 
 If the cause of all these preparations you seek, 
 You, versed in the lore both of Latin and Greek, 
 It is this! That I vow'd, when nigh kill'd by the blow 
 Of yon tree, unto Liber a goat white as snow, 
 With festival rites; and the circling year now 
 Has brought round the day, that I offer' d my vow. 
 'T is a day, which the well-rosin' d cork shall unyoke 
 Of the jar, that was set to be fined in the smoke, 
 When Tullius was Consul. In cups without end 
 Then pledge me, Maecenas, for safe is thy friend; 
 Let the dawn find our lamps still ablaze, and afar 
 From our revel be anger, and clamour and jar! 
 Your cares for the weal of the city dismiss, 
 And why should you not, at a season like this? 
 There is Dacian Cotiso's army is shent, 
 And the Median by discords intestine is rent; 
 The vanquished Cantabrian yonder in Spain 
 Submits after long years of strife to our chain, 
 And the Scythians, unbending their bows in despair, 
 To fly from the plains they had ravaged prepare. 
 Then a respite from public anxieties steal, 
 Feel the easy indifference private men feel, 
 Snatch gaily the* joys which the moment shall bring, 
 And away every care and perplexity fling. 
 
ODE IX. THE RECONCILIATION. 125 
 
 Ode IX. 
 
 THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 Whilst thou wert ever good and kind, 
 
 And I, and I alone might lie 
 Upon thy snowy breast reclined, 
 
 Not Persia's king- so blest as I. 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 Whilst I to thee was all in all, 
 Nor Chloe might with Lydia vie, 
 
 Renown'd in ode or madrigal, 
 Not Roman Ilia famed as I. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 I now am Thracian Chloe's slave, 
 
 With hand and voice that charms the air 
 
 For whom ev'n death itself I'd brave, 
 So fate the darling girl would spare ! 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 I dote on Calais — and I 
 
 Am all his passion, all his care, 
 
 For whom a double death I'd die, 
 So fate the darling boy would spare. 
 
126 
 
 ODE IX. THE RECONCILIATION. 
 
 HORACE. 
 
 What, if our ancient love return, 
 And bind us closer in its chain, 
 
 If I the fair-hair'd Chloe spurn, 
 
 And welcome Lydia's charms again? 
 
 LYDIA. 
 
 Though lovelier than yon star is he, 
 Thou fickle as an April sky, 
 
 More churlish too than Adria's sea, 
 With thee I'd live, with thee I'd die! 
 
ODE X. TO LYCE. 127 
 
 Ode X. * 
 
 TO LYCE. 
 
 Though your drink were the Tanais, dullest of rivers, 
 And your lot with some conjugal savage were cast, 
 
 You should pity, sweet Lyce, the poor soul that shivers 
 Out here at your door in the merciless blast. 
 
 Only hark how the doorway goes straining and creaking, 
 And the piercing wind pipes through the trees that surround 
 
 The court of your villa, while black frost is streaking 
 With ice the crisp snow that lies thick on the ground! 
 
 In your pride — Venus hates it — no longer envelope ye, 
 Or haply you'll find yourself laid on the shelf; 
 
 You never were made for a prudish Penelope , 
 'Tis not in the blood of your sires or yourself. 
 
 Though nor gifts nor entreaties can win a soft answer, 
 Nor the violet pale of my love-ravaged cheek, 
 
 Though your husband be false with a Greek ballet-dancer, 
 And you still are true, and forgiving, and meek; 
 
 Ladies shouldn't as snakes of the jungle be cruel, 
 Nor at heart be as tough as the oak's toughest bole; 
 
 And I can't stand out here every evening, my jewel, 
 Singing, drench'd to the skin, nor I won't, on my soul! 
 
128 ODE XI. TO LYDE. 
 
 Ode XI. 
 
 TO LYDE. 
 
 Oh Hermes, taught by whom Amphion's throat 
 Charm'd into motion stones and senseless things, 
 
 And thou sweet shell, that dost with dulcet note 
 Make music from thy seven melodious strings, 
 
 Thou once nor sweet, nor voluble, but now 
 
 In fane, or rich man's feast, a welcome guest, 
 
 Give to my song the charmer's might, to bow 
 Lyde's unyielding ear, and unrelenting breast! 
 
 Lyde, who, like a filly full of play, 
 
 That frisks and gambols o'er the meadows wide, 
 And fears e'en to be touch'd , will never stay 
 
 To list the burning tale that woos her for a bride. 
 
 Thou listening woods canst lead, and tigers fell, 
 And stay the rapid rivers in their course; 
 
 Yea, the grim janitor of ghastly hell 
 
 Crouch'd on his post, subdued by thy persuasive force. 
 
 Though countless serpents — sentinels full dread — 
 
 The ridges of his fateful brows empale, 
 And, loathly steaming, from his triple head 
 
 Swelters black gore, and poisonous blasts exhale. 
 
ODE XI. TO LYDE. 129 
 
 Ev'n Tityus and Ixion grimly smiled 
 
 Through all their anguish , and awhile hung dry 
 
 The toiling urn, whilst the sweet strain beguiled 
 The Danaids, that stood in soothed oblivion by. 
 
 In Lyde's ear reverberate their guilt, 
 
 And its dread punishment, to draw for ever 
 A jar of water that is ever spilt, 
 
 Through the pierced bottom lost in the sad-flowing river. 
 
 Show her the vengeance sure, howe'er delayed, 
 Which even in Orcus crimes like theirs must feel, 
 
 Those impious girls, stain' d with guilt's blackest shade, 
 
 Those impious girls, who slew their lords with savage steel! 
 
 One only, worthy of the bridal bed, 
 
 Of all the train, was to her perjured sire 
 Magnificently false , and fame shall spread 
 
 Her praise through endless time, link'd to the living lyre. 
 
 'Rise , rise !' Thus to her youthful mate she spoke , 
 'Lest thou from hands, whose guilt is little fear'd, 
 
 Receive a sleep , that never shall be broke ! 
 
 Fly from my father false and ruthless sisters weird! 
 
 'Who now, like lions ravening o'er their prey, 
 
 Butcher their wedded lords, alas, alas! 
 I strike thee not — I, gentler-soul'd than they, 
 
 Nor keep thee prison'd here, but bid thee freely pass. 
 
 'My sire may load my arms with cruel chains, 
 
 Because in pity I my lord did spare, 
 Or o'er the seas to far Numidia's plains 
 
 May banish me, yet all for thee I'll gladly bear! 
 
130 
 
 ODE XI. TO LYDE. 
 
 'Go! speed thee hence, unfurl thy swelling sail, 
 While Venus favours, and this midnight gloom! 
 
 The gods defend thy steps! And let the tale 
 
 Of what I loved and lost be graven upon thy tomb! 1 
 
ODE XII. TO NEOBULE. 131 
 
 Ode XII. 
 
 TO NEOBULE. 
 
 Maids ne'er to their heart's love, 
 
 Poor souls, may give play, 
 Nor wash in the wine cup 
 
 Their troubles away; 
 More dead than alive , 
 
 They are haunted by fear 
 To be scourged by the tongue 
 
 Of a guardian austere. 
 
 Cytherea's wing'd urchin 
 
 From thee doth beguile 
 Thy work-box, and Hebrus 
 
 Of Lipara's isle 
 From thy broidery weans thee , 
 
 And all the hard lore , 
 Which thou, Neobule, 
 
 Didst toil at of yore. 
 
 A handsome young fellow 
 
 Is he, when he laves 
 His balm-dropping shoulders 
 
 In Tiber's dun waves; 
 Bellerophon's self 
 
 Not so well graced a steed, 
 He is peerless in boxing, 
 
 A racehorse in speed; 
 
132 ODE XII. TO NEOBULE. 
 
 Expert too in striking 
 
 The stag with his spear, 
 When the herd o'er the champaign 
 
 Fly panting in fear; 
 Nor less ready handed 
 
 The boar to surprise , 
 Where deep in the shade 
 
 Of the covert it lies. 
 
ODE XIII. TO THE BANDUSIAN FOUNTAIN. 133 
 
 Ode XIII. 
 
 TO THE BANDUSIAN FOUNTAIN. 
 
 Oh fountain of Bandusia, 
 
 Sparkling brighter in thy play, 
 
 Far than crystal, thou of Avine 
 
 Worthy art and fragrant twine 
 
 Of fairest flowers! Tomorrow thou 
 
 A kid shalt have, whose swelling brow, 
 
 And horns just budding into life , 
 
 Give promise both of love and strife. 
 
 Vain promise all! For in the spring 
 
 And glory of his wantoning, 
 
 His blood shall stain thy waters cool 
 
 With many a deep-ensanguined pool. 
 
 Thee the fiery star, the hot 
 
 Breath of noonday toucheth not. 
 
 Thou a grateful cool dost yield 
 
 To the flocks that range afield, 
 
 And breathest freshness from thy stream 
 
 To the labour-wearied team. 
 
 Thou, too, shalt be one ere long 
 
 Of the fountains famed in song, 
 
 When I sing the ilex bending 
 
 O'er thy mosses, whence descending 
 
 Thy delicious waters bound , 
 
 Prattling to the rocks around. 
 
134 ODE XIV. TO THE BOMAXi 
 
 Ode XIV. 
 
 TO THE. ROMANS. 
 
 Csesar, oh people, who of late, 
 Like Hercules defying fate, 
 "Was said the laurel to have sought 
 Which only may by death be bought, 
 To his home-gods returns again, 
 Victorious, from the shores of Spain! 
 
 To the just gods to pay their rites, 
 Now let the matron, who delights 
 In him her peerless lord, repair, 
 And our great leader's sister fair; 
 And with them go the mothers chaste, 
 Their brows with suppliant fillets graced, 
 Of our fresh maids, and of the brave 
 Young men, wTio late have 'scaped the grave! 
 And oh, ye boys, and new-made brides, 
 Hush every Avord that ill betides! 
 
 From rne this truly festal day 
 Shall drive each cloud of care away; 
 Nor shall I draw in fear my breath 
 For civil broil or bloody death, 
 While Cresar sway o'er earth shall bear. 
 Away, then, boy, bring chaplets fair, 
 Bring unguents, and with these a jar, 
 That recollects the Marsian war. 
 If aught that held the juice of grape 
 Might roving Spartacus escape! 
 
 
ODE XIV. TO THE ROMANS. 135 
 
 Neoera, too, that singer rare, 
 Go , bid her quickly bind her hair , 
 Her myrrhy hair, in simple knot, 
 And haste to join me on the spot! 
 But if her porter say thee nay, 
 The hateful churl! then come away. 
 Time-silvered locks the passions school 
 And make the testiest brawler cool ; 
 I had not brook'd his saucy prate, 
 When young, in Plancus' consulate. 
 
136 ODE XV. TO CHLORIS. 
 
 Ode XV. 
 
 TO CHLORIS. 
 
 Quit, quit, 'tis more than time, thou wife 
 
 Of Ibycus the pauper, 
 Thy horribly abandoned life, 
 
 And courses most improper! 
 
 Ripe for the grave, 'mongst girls no more 
 
 Attempt to sport thy paces, 
 Nor fling thy hideous shadow o'er 
 
 Their pure and starry graces. 
 
 What charmingly on Pholoe sits 
 
 In Chloris must repel us: 
 Thy daughter better it befits 
 
 To hunt up the young fellows. 
 
 Like Msenad, by the timbrel made 
 
 Of all restraint oblivious , 
 She by her love for No thus svvay'd 
 
 Like she-goat frisks lascivious. 
 
 To spin Luceria's fleeces suits 
 A crone like thee; no patience 
 
 Can brook thy roses, and thy lutes, 
 And pottle-deep potations. 
 
ODE XVI. TO MAECENAS. 137 
 
 Ode XVI. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Well the tower of brass, the massive doors, the watch-dogs' 
 
 dismal bay 
 Had from midnight wooers guarded Danae, where immured she 
 
 lay; 
 There she might have pined a virgin, prison'd by the timorous 
 
 craft 
 Of her fated sire Acrisius, had not Jove and Venus laugh'd 
 At his terrors; for no sooner changed the god to gold, than he 
 Instantly unto the maiden access found secure and free. 
 
 Through close lines on lines of sentries gold to cleave its way 
 
 delights , 
 Stronger than the crashing lightning through opposing rocks it 
 
 smites ; 
 'Twas through vile desire of lucre, as the storied legends tell, 
 That the house of Argos' augur whelm'd in death and ruin fell; 
 'Twas by bribes the Macedonian city's gates could open fling, 
 'Twas by bribes that lie subverted many a dreaded rival king; 
 Nay there lies such fascination in the gleam of gold to some , 
 That our bluffest navy-captains to its witchery succumb. 
 
 But as wealth into our coffers flows in still increasing store , 
 So, too, still our care increases, and the hunger still for more , 
 Therefore, oh Maecenas, glory of the knights, with righteous 
 
 dread, 
 Have I ever shrunk from lifting too conspicuously my head. 
 
138 ODE XVI. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Yes, the more a man, believe me, shall unto himself deny, 
 So to him shall the Immortals bounteously the more supply. 
 From the ranks of wealth deserting-, I, of all their trappings bare, 
 To the camp of those who covet nought that pelf can bring 
 
 repair, 
 More illustrious as the master of my poor despised hoard, 
 Than if I should be reputed in my garners to have stored 
 All the fruits of all the labours of the stout Apulian boor, 
 Lord belike of wealth unbounded, yet as veriest beggar poor. 
 
 In my crystal stream, my woodland, though its acres are but 
 
 few, 
 And the trust that I shall gather home my crops in season due, 
 Lies a joy, which he may never grasp, who rules in gorgeous 
 
 state 
 Fertile Africa's dominions. Happier, happier far my fate! 
 Though for me no bees Calabrian store their honey, nor doth 
 
 wine 
 Sickening in the Lsestrygonian amphora for me refine; 
 Though for me no flocks unnumber'd, browsing Gallia's pastures 
 
 fair , 
 Pant beneath their swelling fleeces, I at least am free from care; 
 Haggard want with direful clamour ravins never at my door, 
 Nor wouldst thou, if more I wanted, oh my friend, deny me 
 
 more. 
 Appetites subdued will make me richer with my scanty gains , 
 Than the realms of Alyattes wedded to Mygdonia's plains. 
 Much will evermore be wanting unto those who much demand: 
 Blest, whom Jove with Avhat sufficeth dowers, but dowers with 
 
 sparing, hand. 
 
ODE XVII. TO JftLIUS LAMIA. 139 
 
 Ode XVII. 
 
 TO ^ELIUS LAMIA. 
 
 JElius, sprung from Lamos old, 
 
 That mighty king, who first, we're told, 
 
 Ruled forted Formise, 
 And all the land on either hand, 
 Where Liris by Marica's strand 
 
 Goes rippling- to the sea; 
 
 Unless yon old soothsaying crow 
 Deceive me , from the East shall blow 
 
 Tomorrow such a blast, 
 As will with leaves the forests streAv, 
 And heaps of useless algce too 
 
 Upon the sea-beach cast. 
 
 Dry faggots, then, house while you may: 
 Give all your household holiday 
 
 Tomorrow, and with wine 
 Your spirits cheer, be blithe and bold, 
 And on a pigling two moons old 
 
 Most delicately dine! 
 
140 ODE XVIII. TO FAUNUS. 
 
 Ode XVIII. 
 
 TO FAUNUS. 
 
 F annus, lover of the shy 
 Nymphs who at thy coming- fly, 
 Lightly o'er my borders tread, 
 And my fields in sunshine spread, 
 And, departing, leave me none 
 Of my yeanling flock undone! 
 So each closing year shall see 
 A kidling- sacrificed to thee; 
 So shall bounteous bowls of wine , 
 Venus' comrades boon, be thine; 
 So shall perfumes manifold 
 Smoke around thine altar old! 
 
 When December's Nones come round 
 Then the cattle all do bound 
 O'er the grassy plains in play; 
 The village, too, makes holiday, 
 With the steer from labour free'd 
 Sporting blithely through the mead. 
 'Mongst the lambs, that fear him not, 
 Roves the wolf; each sylvan spot 
 Showers its woodland leaves for thee , 
 And the delver, mad with glee, 
 Joys with quick-redoubling- feet 
 The detested ground to beat. 
 

 ODE XIX. TO TELEPHUS. 141 
 
 Ode XIX. 
 
 TO TELEPHUS. 
 
 How long after Inachus, Codrus bore sway there 
 In Greece, for whose sake he so gallantly fell, 
 
 Every scion of JEacus' race, every fray there 
 Beneath holy Troy's leaguer'd walls you can tell. 
 
 But the price one may purchase choice old Chian wine at, 
 Or who has good baths, that you never have told, 
 
 Xor where we shall find pleasant chambers to dine at, 
 And when be secure from Pelignian cold. 
 
 To the new moon a cup, boy, to midnight another, 
 
 And quickly, — to augur Mursena a third! 
 To each bowl give three measures, or nine, — one or t'other 
 
 AVill do, less or more would be wrong and absurd! 
 
 The bard, who is vow'd to the odd-numbered Muses, 
 For bumpers thrice three in his transport will call; 
 
 But the Grace with her loose-kirtled sisters refuses 
 To grant more than three in her horror of brawl. 
 
 For me, I delight to go mad for a season! 
 
 Why ceases the shrill Bereeynthian flute 
 To pour its bewailings? And what is the reason, 
 
 The lyre and the flageolet yonder hang mute? 
 
142 
 
 L * C ODE XIX. TO TELEPHUS. 
 
 I hate niggard hands; then strew freely the roses! 
 
 Let envious Lycus there hear the mad din, 
 And she, our fair neighbour, who with him reposes; 
 
 That she with old Lycus should live is a sin. 
 
 Thee, Telephus, thee, with thy thickflowing- tresses 
 All radiant as Hesper at fall of the day, 
 
 Sweet Rhode is longing to load with caresses, 
 Whilst I waste for Glycera slowly away! 
 
ODE XX. TO PYRKHUS. 143 
 
 Ode XX. 
 
 TO PYRRHUS. 
 
 What man is lie so mad, as dare 
 
 From Moorish lioness to tear 
 
 Her cnbs? My Pyrrhns, dost not see, 
 
 How perilous the task must be ? 
 
 Soon, soon thy heart will fail, and thou 
 
 Wilt shun the strife awaits thee now ; 
 
 When through the youths , that throng- to stav 
 
 Her course, she fiercely makes her way, 
 
 To find Nearchus, peerless youth, 
 
 Oh rare the struggle , small the ruth , 
 
 Till one or other yields, and he 
 
 Her prize, or thine, at last shall be! 
 
 Meanwhile , whilst for the frenzied fair 
 Thou dost thy deadliest shafts prepare , 
 And she whets her appalling teeth , 
 The umpire of the fray beneath 
 His heel, so gossip says, will crush 
 The palm, and spread, to meet the rush 
 Of breezes cool, the odorous hair 
 That clusters round his shoulders fair, 
 Like Nireus he , or whom of yore 
 Jove's bird from watery Ida bore ! 
 
144 ODE XXI. TO A JAR OP WINE. 
 
 Ode XXL 
 
 TO A JAR OF WINE. 
 
 Oh precious crock, whose summers date 
 Like mine, from Manlius' consulate, 
 I wot not whether in your breast 
 Lie maudlin wail or merry jest, 
 Or sudden choler , or the fire 
 Of tipsy Love's insane desire, 
 Or fumes of soft caressing- sleep , 
 Or what more potent charms you keep, 
 But this I know, your ripened power 
 Befits some choicely festive hour. 
 A cup peculiarly mellow 
 Corvinus asks; so come, old fellow, 
 From your time-honoured bin descend, 
 And let me gratify my friend! 
 No churl is he, your charms to slight, 
 Though most intensely erudite : 
 And even old Cato's worth, we know, 
 Took from good wine a nobler glow. 
 
 Your magic power of wit can spread 
 The halo round a dullard's head, 
 Can make the sage forget his care, 
 His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare, 
 And drown his solemn-faced pretence 
 Beneath your blithesome influence. 
 Bright hope you bring and vigour back 
 To minds outworn upon the rack, 
 
ODE XXI. TO A JAR OF WINE. 145 
 
 And put such courage in the brain , 
 As makes the poor be men again, 
 Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrights , 
 Xor all their bristling satellites. 
 
 Bacchus, and Venus, so that she 
 Bring only frank festivity, 
 With sister Graces in her train, 
 Entwining close in lovely chain, 
 And gladsome tapers' living light, 
 Shall spread your treasures o'er the night, 
 Till Phoebus the red East unbars, 
 And puts to rout the trembling stars. 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 ODE XXII. TO DIANA. 
 
 Ode XXII. 
 
 TO DIANA. 
 
 Hail , guardian maid 
 Of mount and forest glade, 
 
 Who, thrice invoked, dost bow 
 Thine ear, and sendest aid 
 To girls in labour with the womb, 
 And snatchest them from an untimely tomb, 
 Goddess three-formed thou! 
 
 I consecrate as thine 
 This overhanging pine, 
 
 My villa's shade; 
 There, as my years decline, 
 The blood of boar so young, that he 
 Dreams only yet of sidelong strokes, by me 
 Shall joyfully be paid! 
 
ODE XXIII. TO PHIDYLE. 147 
 
 Ode XXIII. 
 
 TO PHIDYLE. 
 
 If thou, at eacli new moon, thine upturn' d palms, 
 My rustic Phidyle, to heaven shalt lift, 
 
 The Lares soothe with steam of fragrant balms, 
 A sow, and fruits new-pluck'd, thy simple gift; 
 
 Nor venom'd blast shall nip thy fertile vine, 
 Nor mildew blight thy harvest in the ear; 
 
 Nor shall thy flocks, sweet nurslings, peak and pine 
 When apple-bearing Autumn chills the year. 
 
 The victim mark'd for sacrifice, that feeds 
 On snow-capp'd Algidus, in leafy lane 
 
 Of oak and ilex, or on Alba's meads, 
 
 With its rich blood the pontiffs axe may stain; 
 
 Thy little gods for humbler tribute call, 
 
 Than blood of many victims : twine for them 
 
 Of rosemary a simple coronal, 
 
 And the lush myrtle's frail and fragrant stem. 
 
 The costliest sacrifice that wealth can make 
 From the incensed Penates less commands 
 
 A soft response, than doth the poorest cake, 
 If on the altar laid with spotless hands. 
 
 10* 
 
148 ODE XXIV. TO THE COVETOUS. 
 
 Ode XXIV. 
 
 TO THE COVETOUS. 
 
 Though thou , of wealth possess 1 *! 
 Beyond rich Ind's, or Araby's the blest, 
 
 Should'st with thy palace keeps 
 Fill all the Tuscan and Apulian deeps, 
 
 If Fate, that spoiler dread, 
 Her adamantine bolts drive to the head, 
 
 Thou shalt not from despairs 
 Thy spirit free, nor loose thy head from death's dark snares. 
 
 The Scythians of the plains 
 More happy are , housed in their wandering wains , 
 
 More blest the Getan stout, 
 Who not from acres mark'cl and meted out 
 
 Reaps his free fruits and grain: 
 A year, no more, he rests in his domain, 
 
 Then, pausing from his toil, 
 He quits it, and in turn another tills the soil. 
 
 The guileless stepdame there 
 The orphan tends with all a mother's care; 
 
 No dowried dame her spouse 
 O'erbears, or trusts the sleek seducer's vows; 
 
 Her dower a blameless life, 
 True to her lord, she shrinks an unstain'd wife 
 
 Even from another's breath; 
 To fall is there a crime, and there the guerdon death! 
 
ODE XXIV. TO THE COVETOUS. 149 
 
 Oh, for the man, would stay 
 Our gory hands, our civil broils allay! 
 
 If on his statues he 
 sire of the common-weal proclaim'd would be , 
 
 Let him not fear to rein 
 Our wild licentiousness, content to gain 
 
 From after- times renown , 
 For ah! while Virtue lives, we hunt her down, 
 
 And only learn to prize 
 Her worth, when she has pass'd for ever from our eyes! 
 
 What boots it to lament, 
 If crime be not cut down by punishment? 
 
 What can vain laws avail, 
 If life in every moral virtue fail? 
 
 If nor the clime , that glows 
 Environ'd round by fervid heats, nor snows 
 
 And biting Northern wind, 
 Which all the earth in icy cerements bind , 
 
 The merchant back can keep, 
 And skilful shipmen flout the horrors of the deep ? 
 
 Yes! Rather than be poor, 
 AVliat will not mortals do , what not endure ? 
 
 Such dread disgrace to shun, 
 From virtue's toilsome path aAvay we run. 
 
 Quick , let us 'raid the roar 
 Of crowds applauding to the echo pour 
 
 Into the Capitol, 
 Or down into the nearest ocean roll 
 
 Our jewels, gems, and gold. 
 Dire nutriment of ills and miseries untold! 
 
150 ODE XXIV. TO THE COVETOUS. 
 
 If with sincere intent 
 We would of our iniquities repent , 
 
 Uprooted then must be 
 The very germs of base cupidity, 
 
 And our enervate souls 
 Be braced by manlier arts for nobler goals! 
 
 The boy of noble race 
 Can now not sit his steed, and dreads the chase, 
 
 But wields with mastery nice 
 The Grecian hoop, or even the law-forbidden dice! 
 
 What marvel, if the while 
 His father, versed in every perjured wile, 
 
 For vilest private ends 
 Defrauds his guests, his partners, and his friends, 
 
 His pride, his only care, 
 To scramble wealth for an unworthy heir! 
 
 They grow, his ill-got gains, 
 But something still he lacks, and something ne'er attains! 
 
ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS. 151 
 
 Ode XXV. 
 
 TO BACCHUS. 
 
 Whither, whither, full of thee, 
 Bacchus, dost thou hurry me? 
 Say, what groves are these I range, 
 Whirl'd along by impulse strange , 
 What the caves, through which I fly? 
 Tell me , in what grot shall I 
 Swell illustrious Caesar's praise, 
 Striving to the stars to raise 
 Worth that worthy is to shine 
 In Jove's council-hall divine? 
 
 I a strain sublime shall pour, 
 Ne'er by mortal sung before. 
 As the Eviad, from some height, 
 Sleepless through the livelong night , 
 With a thrill of wild amaze 
 Hebrus at his feet surveys, 
 Thrace, enwrapp'd in snowy sheet, 
 Khodope by barbarous feet 
 Trodden, so where'er I rove 
 Far from human haunts, the grove, 
 Rock, and crag, and woodland height 
 Charm me with a wild delight. 
 
152 
 
 ODE XXV. TO BACCHUS. 
 
 Oh thou, who dost the Naiads, and 
 The Bacchanalian maids command, 
 Whose hands uproot, such strength have they, 
 Ash-trees with storms of ages grey, 
 No mean, no mortal theme is mine, 
 Nor less my numbers than divine! 
 Though perilous, 'tis glorious too, 
 Oh great Lenseus, to pursue 
 The god, who round his forehead twines 
 Leaves gather'd freshly from the vines. 
 

 ODE XXVI. TO VENUS. 153 
 
 Ode XXVI. 
 
 TO VENUS. 
 
 Of late Eve been leading a life of flirtation, 
 
 And trophies have won, that I care not to show; 
 
 But wooing and winning are only vexation, 
 Em heartily sick of the business. Heigho! 
 
 My spurs having earn'd, I'll lay down my armour, 
 And hang up my lyre, ne'er to touch it again, 
 
 On this wall by the left hand of Venus the charmer , 
 Bright Venus Thalassia, that springs from the main. 
 
 Quick, quick! Pile them here, while the fit is upon me, 
 The torches , the tabors , the arrows , the pike , 
 
 And the crowbar, which oft-time an entrance hath won me 
 To beauty that only to valour would strike. 
 
 Oh! Goddess, o*er Cyprus the sunny who reignest. 
 Fair queen of soft Memphis, oblige me and touch 
 
 With your scourge that minx Chloe — the scornfullest , vainest 
 Just so as to frighten, but not hurt her — much! 
 
154 ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 
 
 Ode XXVII. 
 
 TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 
 
 Let omens dire the bad attend, 
 Who would upon a journey wend, — 
 The bitch in whelp, the screeching owl, 
 The dun she-wolf upon her prowl 
 Of hunger from Lanuvium's rocks, 
 And, worse than all, the pregnant fox; 
 Nor care I if, their course to break, 
 With sudden spring some nimble snake 
 Shall cross the road-way like a dart, 
 And make their carriage horses start! 
 But I with sage forecasting skill, 
 For her I love and fear for will 
 By my strong pray'rs' resistless force 
 Call from the East the raven hoarse, 
 Ere , scenting rain at hand , again 
 It seek its haunts amid the fen. 
 
 May'st thou be happy, wheresoe'er 
 Thou go'st, and me in memory bear, 
 Fair Galatea! Boding jay 
 Nor vagrant crow shall bar thy way. 
 But see, with what a troubled glare 
 Orion's star is setting there! 
 Trust me! I've wrestled with the gales 
 Of Hadria's gulf, could tell thee tales, 
 
ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 
 
 155 
 
 Would scare thee, of the mischief too, 
 Which smooth-lipp'd western winds can do. 
 Let our foes' wives, and all their kind, 
 Feel rising Auster's fury hlind, 
 And shudder at black ocean's roar, 
 What time it smites the trembling shore. 
 Like thee, Europa her fair side 
 Did to the treacherous bull confide, 
 But found her courage fail, when she 
 Beheld the monsters of the sea; 
 She who but late through all her hours 
 Amongst the meads cull'd wilding flowers , 
 In garlands and festoons to twine 
 Around the guardian woodnymphs' shrine, 
 Now nought beneath the louring sky 
 But stars and billows could descry. 
 
 Soon as she touch'd the Cretan ground, 
 For five score cities fair renown'd, 
 "How, oh my sire!" did she exclaim, 
 "Have I foregone a daughter's name? 
 Slave to mad passion, how have I 
 Broke every holy filial tie? 
 Whence have I come, and whither flown? 
 One death is worthless to atone 
 For guilt like mine, so base, so deep! 
 Wake I, and have I cause to weep? 
 Or is my soul yet free from stain, 
 And these but phantoms of the brain, 
 Mere incorporeal films of dream, 
 Which through Sleep's ivory portal stream? 
 
 "Oh madness, to have left my home, 
 To deem it happier, thus to roam 
 
156 ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 
 
 Yon weary waste of waters blue, 
 Than gather flowers that freshly grew! 
 If any to ray rage should now 
 Yield that vile bull, this steel, I vow, 
 Should hew him down before me here , 
 And break his horns, though late so dear. 
 Shameless my father's hearth I fled! 
 Shameless I shrink from Orcus dread! 
 Place me, ye gods, in righteous wrath, 
 Naked upon the lions' path, 
 Or give me, ere grief's wasting might 
 The blossoms of my cheeks shall blight, 
 And sap my blood's warm tide away, 
 To be the hungry tigers' prey! 
 
 "Why, vile Europa, linger? why? 
 I hear my absent father cry. 
 Quick, hang thee on yon ash! Thy zone 
 Will serve thee — that is still thine own; 
 Or if yon cliff delight thee more, 
 These death-edged rocks , that strew the shore 
 Then to the driving tempest give 
 Thyself, unless thou 'dst rather live 
 A bondslave, carding servile wool, 
 'Neath some barbarian princess' rule, 
 And brook, though sprung of royal race, 
 A vulgar concubine's disgrace !" 
 
 As thus she pour'd her wail on high, 
 Venus the while stood laughing by, 
 And to her side, with bow unstrung, 
 Her boy, the rosy Cupid, clung. 
 When she of mirth her fill had ta'en , 
 "This boiling rage," she cried, "restrain. 
 
ODE XXVII. TO GALATEA, GOING TO SEA. 157 
 
 Since yon detested bull shall bend 
 
 His horns for thee at will to rend. 
 
 Know'st not, thou art Jove's honour' d bride? 
 
 Then dry thy tears, and own with pride 
 
 Thy mighty fortune , mightier fame , 
 
 For half the globe shall bear thy name!" 
 
158 ODE XXVIII. TO LYDE. 
 
 Ode XXVIII. 
 
 TO LYDE. 
 
 What goodlier or fitter plan 
 
 Have I for Neptune's festal day? 
 
 Then forth the hoarded Csecuban, 
 My Lyde, bring without delay, 
 
 And for a season, if you can, 
 Fling wisdom's sober saws away! 
 
 You see the waning light decay, 
 And yet you pause and hesitate, — 
 
 As though the day its flight would stay, - 
 To pluck down from its cellar'd state 
 
 The amphora, was stored away 
 In Bibulus's consulate. 
 
 In alternating strains shall we 
 
 Sing Neptune, and the deep-green hair 
 Of Nereids sporting through the sea; 
 
 And thou on curved lyre with fair 
 Latona, and the shafts so free 
 
 Of Cynthia, shalt enchant the air. 
 
 And she, who Cnidos makes her care, 
 And dwells amidst the Cyclads bright, 
 
 And doth to Paphos oft repair 
 
 With team of swans for her delight, 
 
 Shall have our closing song; and rare 
 Shall be our hymn in praise of Night. 
 
ODE XXIX. TO M^CENAS. 159 
 
 Ode XXIX. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Scion of Tuscan kings, in store 
 I've laid a cask of mellow wine , 
 
 That never has been broach'd before. 
 I've roses , too , for wreaths to twine , 
 
 And Nubian nut, that for thy hair 
 
 An oil shall yield of fragrance rare. 
 
 Then linger not, but hither wend! 
 
 Nor always from afar survey 
 Dank Tibur's leafy heights, my friend, 
 
 The sloping lawns of -<Esula, 
 And mountain peaks of Circe's son, 
 The parricidal Telegon. 
 
 The plenty quit, that only palls, 
 
 And, turning from the cloud-capp'd pile, 
 
 That towers above thy palace halls , 
 Forget to worship for a while 
 
 The privileges Rome enjoys , 
 
 Her smoke, her splendour, and her noise. 
 
 It is the rich who relish best 
 
 To dwell at times from state aloof, 
 
 And simple suppers, neatly dress'd, 
 Beneath a poor man's humble roof, 
 
 With neither pall nor purple there, 
 
 Have smoothed ere now the brow of care. 
 
160 ODE XXIX. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 See, now Andromeda's bright sire 
 Reveals his erewhile hidden rajs, 
 
 Now Procyon flames with fiercest fire , 
 Mad Leo's star is all ablaze, 
 
 For the revolving sun has brought 
 
 The season round of parching drought. 
 
 Now with his spent and languid flocks 
 The wearied shepherd seeks the shade, 
 
 The river cool, the shaggy rocks, 
 That overhang the tangled glade , 
 
 And by the stream no breeze's gush 
 
 Disturbs the universal hush. 
 
 Thou dost devise with sleepless zeal 
 
 What course may best the state beseem 
 
 And, fearful for the City's weal, 
 
 Weigh'st anxiously each hostile scheme , 
 
 That may be hatching far away 
 
 In Scythia, India, or Cathay. 
 
 Most wisely Jove in thickest night 
 The issues of the future veils, 
 
 And laughs at the self-torturing wight, 
 Who with imagined terrors quails. 
 
 The present only is thine own, 
 
 Then use it Avell, ere it has flown. 
 
 All else which may by time be bred 
 
 Is like a river of the plain, 
 Now gliding gently o'er its bed 
 
 Along to the Etruscan main, 
 Now whirling onwards, fierce and fast, 
 Uprooted trees, and boulders vast, 
 
ODE XXIX. TO MAECENAS. 161 
 
 And flocks, and houses, all in drear 
 Confusion toss'd from shore to shore, 
 
 While mountains far, and forests near 
 Reverberate the rising roar, 
 
 When lashing rains among the hills 
 
 To fury wake the quiet rills. 
 
 Lord of himself that man will be, 
 And happy in his life alway, 
 
 Who still at eve can say with free 
 Contented soul, "I've lived today! 
 
 Let Jove tomorrow , if he will , 
 
 With blackest clouds the welkin fill, 
 
 Or flood it all Avith sunlight pure , 
 Yet from the past he cannot take 
 
 Its influence , for that is sure , 
 
 Nor can he mar, or bootless make 
 
 Whate'er of rapture and delight 
 
 The hours have borne us in their flight.' 
 
 Fortune, who with malicious glee 
 Her merciless vocation plies, 
 
 Benignly smiling now on me, 
 Now on another , bids him rise , 
 
 And in mere wantonness of whim 
 
 Her favours shifts from me to him. 
 
 I laud her, whilst by me she holds, 
 But if she spread her pinions swift, 
 
 I wrap me in my virtue's folds, 
 And yielding back her every gift, 
 
 Take refuge in the life so free 
 
 Of bare but honest poverty. 
 
 11 
 
162 ODE XXIX. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 You will not find me, when the mast 
 
 Groans 'neath the stress of southern gales. 
 
 To wretched pray'rs rush off, nor cast 
 Vows to the great gods, lest my bales 
 
 From Tyre or Cyprus sink, to be 
 
 Fresh booty for the hungry sea. 
 
 When others then in wild despair 
 
 To save their cumbrous wealth essay, 
 
 I to the vessel's skiff repair, 
 
 And, whilst the Twin Stars light my way, 
 
 Safely the breeze my little craft 
 
 Shall o'er the Egean billows waft. 
 
 
ODE XXX. TO MELPOMEXE. 163 
 
 Ode XXX. 
 
 TO MELPOMEXE. 
 
 Eve reared a monument, my own, 
 
 More durable than brass , 
 Yea, kingly pyramids of stone 
 
 In height it doth surpass. 
 
 Rain shall not sap, nor driving blast 
 
 Disturb its settled base, 
 Nor countless ages rolling past 
 
 Its symmetry deface. 
 
 I shall not wholly die. Some part, 
 
 Nor that a little , shall 
 Escape the dark Destroyer's dart, 
 
 And his grim festival. 
 
 For long as with his Vestals mute 
 Rome's Pontifex shall climb 
 
 The Capitol, my fame shall shoot 
 Fresh buds through future time. 
 
 Where brawls loud Aufidus, and came 
 Parch'd Daunus erst , a horde 
 
 Of rustic boors to sway, my name 
 Shall be a household word, 
 
 11* 
 
164 ODE XXX. TO MELPOMENE. 
 
 As one who rose from mean estate 
 
 The first with poet fire 
 ^Eolic song to modulate 
 
 To the Italian lyre. 
 
 Then grant, Melpomene, thy son 
 Thy guerdon proud to wear, 
 
 And Delphic laurels duly won 
 Bind thou upon my hair! 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
ODE I. THE PAINS OF LOVE. 167 
 
 Ode I. 
 
 THE PAINS OF LOVE. 
 
 Altered from Ben Jomon. 
 
 Venus, dost thou renew a fray 
 Long intermitted? Spare me, spare, I pray! 
 
 I am not such as in the reign 
 Of the good Cinara I was. Kefrain, 
 
 Sweet Love's sour mother, him to school, 
 Whom lustres ten have hardened to thy rule, 
 
 And soft behests; and hie thee where 
 Youth calls to thee with many a fondling prayer! 
 
 More fitly — if thou seek to lire 
 A bosom apt for love and young desire — 
 
 Come, borne by bright- wing'd swans, and thus 
 lvevel in the house of Paulus Maximus; 
 
 Since , noble , and of graces choice , 
 For troubled clients voluble of voice, 
 
 And lord of countless arts, afar 
 Will he advance the banners of thy war. 
 
 And when he shall with smiles behold 
 His native charms eclipse his rival's gold, 
 
 He will tbyself in marble rear, 
 Beneath a cedarn roof near Alba's mere. 
 
 There shall thy dainty nostril take 
 In many a gum, and for thy soft ear's sake 
 
 Shall verse be set to harp and lute, 
 And Phrygian hautboy, not without the flute. 
 
168 ODE I. THE PAINS OF LOVE. 
 
 There twice a-day, in sacred lays, 
 Shall youths and tender maidens sing- thy praise ; 
 
 And thrice in Salian manner heat 
 The ground in cadence with their ivory feet. 
 
 Me neither damsel now, nor boy 
 Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual joy; 
 
 Nor glads me now the deep carouse, 
 Nor with dew -dropping flowers to bind my brows. 
 
 But why, oh why, my Ligurine, 
 Flow my thin tears down these poor cheeks of mine? 
 
 Or why, my well-graced words among, 
 With an uncomely silence fails my tongue? 
 
 I dream, thou cruel one, by night, 
 I hold thee fast; anon, fled with the light, 
 
 Whether in Field of Mars thou be, 
 Or Tiber's rolling streams , I follow thee. 
 
ODE II. TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 169 
 
 Ode II. 
 
 TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 
 
 lulus, he, who'd rival Pindar's fame, 
 
 On waxen wings doth sweep 
 
 The Empyrean steep, 
 To fall like Icarus, and with his name 
 
 Endue the glassy deep. 
 
 Like to a mountain stream, that roars 
 
 From bank to bank along, 
 
 When autumn rains are strong, 
 So deep-mouth'd Pindar lifts his voice , and pours 
 
 His fierce tumultuous song. 
 
 Worthy Apollo's laurel wreath, 
 
 Whether he strike the lyre 
 
 To love and young desire, 
 While bold and lawless numbers grow beneath 
 
 His mastering touch of fire; 
 
 Or sings of Gods , and monarchs sprung 
 
 Of gods, that overthrew, 
 
 The Centaurs, hideous crew, 
 And, fearless of the monster's fiery tongue, 
 
 The dread Chima3ra slew; 
 
170 ODE IT. TO IULUS ANTONIUS. 
 
 Or those the Elean palm doth lift 
 
 To heaven, for winged steed, 
 
 Or sturdy arm decreed, 
 Giving, than hundred statues nobler gift, 
 
 The poet's deathless mead ; 
 
 Or mourns the youth snatch'd from his bride, 
 
 Extols his manhood clear, 
 
 And to the starry sphere 
 Exalts his golden virtues, scattering wide 
 
 The gloom of Orcus drear. 
 
 AVhen the Dirce'an Swan doth climb 
 
 Into the azure sky, 
 
 There poised in ether high, 
 He courts each gale, and floats on wing sublime, 
 
 Soaring with stedfast eye. 
 
 I, like the tiny bee, that sips 
 
 The fragrant thyme, and strays 
 
 Humming through leafy ways, 
 By Tibur's sedgy banks, with trembling lips 
 
 Fashion my toilsome lays. 
 
 But thou, when up the sacred steep 
 
 Caesar, with garlands crown'd, 
 
 Leads the Sicambrians bound, 
 With bolder hand the echoing strings shalt sweep, 
 
 And bolder measures sound. 
 
 Csesar, than whom a nobler son 
 
 The Fates and Heaven's kind powers 
 
 Ne'er gave this earth of ours, 
 Nor e'er will give , though backward time should run 
 
 To its first golden hours. 
 
ODE II. TO IULUS ANTON1US. 171 
 
 Thou, too, slialt sing the joyful days, 
 
 The city's festive throng*, 
 
 When Caesar, absent long-, 
 At length returns, — the Forum's silent ways, 
 
 Serene from strife and wrong. 
 
 Then, though in statelier power it lack, 
 
 My voice shall swell the lay, 
 
 And sing, 'Oh, glorious day, 
 Oh day thrice blest, that gives great Coesar back 
 
 To Rome, from hostile fray!' 
 
 'Io Triumphe!' thrice the cry; 
 
 To Triumphe !' loud 
 
 Shall shout the echoing crowd 
 The city through, and to the gods on high 
 
 Eaise incense like a cloud. 
 
 Ten bulls shall pay thy sacrifice, 
 
 With whom ten kine shall bleed, 
 
 I to the fane will lead 
 A yearling of the herd, of modest size, 
 
 From the luxuriant mead, 
 
 Horn'd like the moon, when her pale light, 
 
 Which three brief days have fed , 
 
 She trimmeth, and, dispread 
 On his broad brows a spot of snowy white, 
 
 All else a tawny red. 
 
172 ODE III. TO MELPOMENE. 
 
 Ode III. 
 
 TO MELPOMENE. 
 
 The man whom thou, bright Muse of song, 
 Didst at his birth regard with smiling calm , 
 
 Shall win no glory in the Isthmian throng, 
 From lusty wrestlers bearing off the palm , 
 
 Nor ever, reining steed of fire, shall he 
 
 In swift Achaian car roll on victoriously. 
 
 Nor him shall warfare's stern renown, 
 
 Nor baffled menaces of mighty kings, 
 Bear to the Capitol with laurel crown; 
 
 But streams that kiss with gentle murmurings 
 Rich Tibur's vale, — thick wood, and mossy "brake, 
 Him of the iEolian lyre shall worthy master make. 
 
 At Rome, of all earth's cities queen, 
 
 Men deign to rank me in the noble press 
 
 Of bards beloved of man; and now, I ween, 
 Doth envy's rancorous tooth assail me less. 
 
 Oh thou loved Muse, who temperest the swell 
 
 And modulated noise of the sweet golden shell! 
 
 Oh thou, who canst at will endow 
 
 Mute fish with swanlike voices soft and sweet, 
 'Tis all thy gift, that, as they pass me now, 
 
 Men point me to their fellows on the street, 
 As lord and chief of Roman minstrelsy; 
 Yes, that I sing and please, if please, is due to thee. 
 
ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 173 
 
 Ode IV. 
 
 THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 
 
 Like as the thunder-bearing bird, 
 
 (On whom o'er all the fowls of air 
 Dominion was by Jove conferr'd, 
 
 Because with loyal care 
 He bore away to heaven young Ganymede the fair ,) 
 
 Whom native vigour and the rush 
 
 Of youth have spurr'd to quit the nest, 
 And skies of blue, in springtide's flush 
 
 Entice aloft to breast 
 The gales he fear'd before his lordly plumes were drest, 
 
 Now swooping, eager for his prey, 
 
 Spreads havoc through the flutter'd fold, — 
 
 Straight, fired by love of food and fray, 
 In grapple fierce and bold 
 The struggling dragons rends ev'n in their rocky hold: 
 
 Or like the lion's whelp , but now 
 
 Wean'd from his tawny mother's side , 
 By tender kidling on the brow 
 
 Of some green slope espied, 
 Whose unflesh'd teeth she knows will in her blood be dye J 
 
 So dread, so terrible in war 
 
 Our noble Drusus shew'd, when through 
 The Rhsetian Alpine glens afar 
 
 His conquering eagles flew , 
 And swiftly the appall'd Vindelici o'erthrew. 
 
174 ODE IV. THE TRAISES OF DRUSUS. 
 
 Whence came their custom, — in the night 
 
 Of farthest time it flourish'd there, — 
 With Amazonian axe to fight, 
 
 To question I forbear; 
 Nor every thing to know, may any mortal dare; 
 
 But this I know; their hosts, that still, 
 
 Where'er they came, victorious fought, 
 In turn by that young hero's skill 
 
 Revanquish'd, have been taught 
 To feel what marvels may of enterprise be wrought 
 
 By valiant heart and vigorous head, 
 
 In home auspicious train' d to power, 
 What by the noble spirit fed 
 
 In Nero's sons by our 
 Augustus, who on them a father's care did shower. 
 
 'Tis of the brave and good alone 
 
 That good and brave men are the seed; 
 The virtues, which their sires have shewn, 
 Are found in steer and steed; 
 Nor do the eagles fierce the gentle ringdove breed. 
 
 Yet training quickens power inborn, 
 
 And culture nerves, the soul for fame; 
 But he must live a life of scorn, 
 
 Who bears a noble name, 
 Yet blurs it with the soil of infamy and shame. 
 
 What thou, Rome, dost the Neros owe, 
 
 Let dark Metaurus 1 river say, 
 And Asdmbal, thy vanquish' d foe, 
 And that auspicious day, 
 Which through the scattered gloom broke forth with smiling ray 
 
 
 
ODE IV. THE PKAISES OF DRUSUS. 175 
 
 AVhen joy again to Latium came, t 
 
 Nor longer through her towns at ease 
 
 The fatal Lybian swept, like flame 
 Among the forest trees, 
 Or Eurus' headlong gust across Sicilian seas. 
 
 Thenceforth, for with success they toil'd, 
 
 Rome's youth in vigour wax'd amain, 
 And temples ravaged and despoil'd 
 
 By Punic hordes profane 
 Upraised within their shrines beheld their gods again. 
 
 Till spoke false Hannibal at length; 
 
 "Like stags, of ravening wolves the prey, 
 Why rush to grapple with their strength , 
 From whom to steal away 
 The loftiest triumph is, they leave for us today? 
 
 "That race, inflexible as brave, 
 
 From Ilium quench'd in flames who bore 
 
 Across the wild Etruscan wave 
 
 Their babes, their grandsires hoar, 
 And all their sacred things, to the Ausonian shore, 
 
 "Like oak, by sturdy axes lopp'd 
 
 Of all its boughs, which once the brakes 
 
 Of shaggy Algidus o'ertopp'd, 
 Its loss its glory makes, 
 And from the very steel fresh strength and spirit takes. 
 
 "Not Hydra, cleft through all its trunk, 
 With fresher vigour wax'd and spread, 
 
 Till even Alcides' spirit shrunk; 
 Nor yet hath Colchis dread, 
 Or Echionean Thebes more fatal monster bred. 
 
176 ODE IV. THE PRAISES OF DRUSUS. 
 
 "In ocean plunge it, and more bright 
 
 It rises; scatter it, and lo ! 
 Its unscathed victors it will smite 
 With direful overthrow, 
 And Rome's proud dames shall tell of many a routed foe. 
 
 "No messengers in boastful pride 
 Will I to Carthage send again; 
 Our every hope, it died, it died, 
 When Asdrubal was slain, ; 
 And with his fall our name's all-conquering star did wane. 
 
 "No peril, but the Claudian line 
 
 Will front and master it, for they 
 Are shielded by Jove's grace divine, 
 
 And counsels sage alway 
 Their hosts through war's rough paths successfully convey !' 
 
ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS. 177 
 
 Ode V. 
 
 TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 From gods benign descended, thou 
 Best guardian of the fates of Rome , 
 Too long already from thy home , 
 
 Hast thou, dear chief, been absent now; 
 
 Oh then return, the pledge redeem, 
 
 Thou gav'st the Senate, and once more 
 Its light to all the land restore ; 
 
 For when thy face, like spring-tide's gleam. 
 
 Its brightness on the people sheds, 
 
 Then glides the day more sweetly by, 
 A brighter blue pervades the sky, 
 
 The sun a richer radiance spreads! 
 
 As on her boy the mother calls , 
 
 Her boy, whom envious tempests keep 
 Beyond the vex'd Carpathian deep, 
 
 From his dear home, till winter falls, 
 
 And still with vow and pray'r she cries, 
 Still gazes on the winding shore, 
 So yearns the country evermore 
 
 For Coesar, with fond wistful eyes. 
 
 12 
 
178 ODE V. TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 For safe tlie herds range field and fen, 
 Fullheaded stand the shocks of grain, 
 Our sailors sweep the peaceful main, 
 
 And man can trust his fellow men. 
 
 No more adulterers stain our beds, 
 Laws, morals both that taint efface, 
 The husband in the child we trace , 
 
 And close on crime sure vengeance treads. 
 
 The Parthian, under Caesar's reign, 
 Or icy Scythian, who can dread, 
 Or all the tribes barbarian bred 
 
 By Germany, or ruthless Spain? 
 
 Now each man, basking on his slopes, 
 Weds to his widow'd trees the vine, 
 Then, as he gaily quaffs his wine, 
 
 Salutes thee God of all his hopes; 
 
 And prayers to thee devoutly sends , 
 With deep libations; and, as Greece 
 Ranks Castor and great Hercules, 
 
 Thy godship with his Lares blends. 
 
 Oh, may'st thou on Hesperia shine, 
 Her chief, her joy, for many a day! 
 Thus, dry-lipp'd, thus at morn we pray, 
 
 Thus pray at eve , when flush'd with wine ! 
 
ODE VI. IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA. 179 
 
 Ode VI. 
 
 IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA. 
 
 Thou god, who art potent that tongue to chastise, 
 
 Which e'er by its vaunts the Immortals defies, 
 
 As well the sad offspring of Niobe knew, 
 
 And Tityus , profanest of ravishers too, 
 
 And Phthian Achilles, who wellnigh o'ercame 
 
 Proud Troy, of all warriors the foremost in fame, 
 
 Yet ne'er with thyself to be match'd; for though he 
 
 Was begotten of Thetis, fair nymph of the sea, 
 
 And shook the Dardanian turrets with fear, 
 
 As he crash' tl through the fray with his terrible spear, 
 
 Like a pine, by the biting steel struck and down cast, 
 
 Or cypress o'erthrown by the hurricane blast, 
 
 Far prostrate -he fell, and in Teucrian dust 
 
 His locks all dishevell'd ignobly were thrust. 
 
 He would not, shut up in the horse, that was feign'd 
 
 To be vow'd to the rites of Minerva, have deign'd 
 
 In their ill-timed carouse on the Trojans to fall, 
 
 When the festival dance gladden'd Priam's high hall ; 
 
 No! He to the captives remorseless, — oh shame! 
 
 In the broad face of day to Greek faggot and flame 
 
 Their babes would have flung, yea, as ruthless a doom 
 
 Would have wreak'd upon those who still slept in the womb,' 
 
 If won by sweet Venus' entreaties and thine , 
 
 The Sire of the Gods, with a bounty benign, 
 
 A City had not to JEneas allow'd, 
 
 To stand through the ages triumphant and proud! 
 
 12* 
 
180 ODE VI. IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA. 
 
 Thou, who taught'st keen Thalia the plectrum to guide, 
 
 Thou, who lavest thy tresses in Xanthus's tide, 
 
 Oh beardless Agyieus , uphold, I implore, 
 
 The fame of the Daunian Muse evermore, 
 
 For 'twas thou didst inspire me w r ith poesy's flame, 
 
 Thou gav'st me the art of the bard, and his name! 
 
 Ye virgins, the foremost in rank and in race, 
 Ye boys , who the fame of your ancestry grace , 
 Fair wards of the Delian goddess, whose bow 
 Lays the swift- footed lynx and the antelope low, 
 To the Lesbian measure keep time with your feet, 
 And sing in accord with my thumb in its beat; 
 Hymn the son of Latona in cadence aright, 
 Hymn duly the still-waxing lamp of the night, 
 That with plentiful fruitage the season doth cheer, 
 And speeds the swift months on to girdle the year! 
 
 And thou, who art chief of the chorus today, 
 Soon borne home a bride in thy beauty shalt say, 
 "When the cyclical year brought its festival .days , 
 My voice led the hymn of thanksgiving and praise, 
 So sweet, the Immortals to hear it were fain, 
 And 'twas Horace the poet, who taught me the strain!" 
 
ODE VII. TO TORQUATUS. 181 
 
 Ode VII. 
 
 TO TORQUATUS. 
 
 The snows have fled, and to the meadows now 
 Returns the grass, their foliage to the trees: 
 
 Earth dons another garb, and dwindling low 
 
 Between their wonted banks the rivers seek the seas. 
 
 The Graces with the Nymphs their dances twine, 
 
 Unzoned, and heedless of the amorous air; 
 Read in the shifting year, my friend, a sign, 
 
 That change and death attend all human hope and care. 
 
 Winter dissolves beneath the breath of Spring, 
 
 Spring yields to Summer, which shall be no more, 
 
 When Autumn spreads her fruits thick- clustering , 
 
 And then comes Winter back, — bleak, icy-dead, and hoar. 
 
 But moons revolve, and all again is bright: 
 We, when we fall, as fell the good and just 
 
 JEneas, wealthy Tullus, Ancus wight, 
 
 Are but a nameless shade, and some poor grains of dust. 
 
 Who knows, if they who all our Fates control, 
 
 Will add a morrow to thy brief today? 
 Then think of this — What to a friendly soul 
 
 Thy hand doth give shall 'scape thine heir's rapacious sway. 
 
1°2 ODE VII. TO TORQUATUS. 
 
 When thou, Torquatus, once hast vanish'd hence, 
 And o'er thee Minos' great decree is writ, 
 
 Nor ancestry, nor firelipp'd eloquence, 
 
 Nor all thy store of wealth to give thee back were fit. 
 
 For even Diana from the Stygian gloom 
 Her chaste Hippolytus no more may gain, 
 
 And dear Pirithous must 'bide his doom, 
 
 For Theseus' arm is frail to rend dark Lethe's chain. 
 
ODE VIII. TO MARCUS CENSORINUS. 183 
 
 Ode VIII. 
 
 TO MARCUS CENSORINUS. 
 
 Cups on my friends I would freely bestow, 
 Dear Censorinus, and bronzes most rare, 
 
 Tripods carved richly, in Greece long ago 
 
 The guerdons of heroes, for them I would spare 
 
 Nor should the worst of my gifts be thine own, 
 If in my household art's marvels were rife, 
 
 Hero or god, wrought by Scopas in stone, 
 Or by Parrhasius coloured to life. 
 
 But unto me no such dainties belong, 
 
 Nor of them either hast thou any dearth; 
 
 Song is thy joy, I can give thee a song, 
 
 Teach, too, the gift's all unmatchable worth. 
 
 Not marbles graven Avith glorious scrolls 
 Penn'd by a nation with gratitude due, 
 
 Records, in which our great warriors' souls 
 Tameless by death ever flourish anew! 
 
 Not flying enemies, no, nor with shame 
 Hannibal's menaces back on him hurl'd, 
 
 Not fraudful Carthage expiring in flame, 
 Blazon his glory more bright to the world, 
 

 184 ODE VIII. TO MARCUS CENSORINUS. 
 
 His surname from Africa vanquish'd who drew, 
 Than doth the Calabrian Muse by its lays: 
 
 Nor , if no song tell your triumphs , will you 
 Reap the full guerdon of life-giving praise. 
 
 What were great Mavors' and Ilia's son, 
 Had envious silence his merits suppress'd? 
 
 Styx's dark flood had o'er iEacus run, 
 
 But song bore him on to the Isles of the Blest. 
 
 Dower'd by the Muse with a home in the sky, 
 Ne'er can he perish , whom she doth approve : 
 
 Dauntless Alcides thus revels on high, 
 Guest at the coveted banquets of Jove. 
 
 So the Twin Stars, as through tempests they glow 
 Save the spent seaman, when most he despairs; 
 
 Bacchus, with vine-leaves fresh garlanded, so 
 Brings to fair issues his votary's pray'rs. 
 
ODE IX. TO LOLLIUS. 185 
 
 Ode IX. 
 
 TO LOLLIUS. 
 
 N"ever deem, they must perish, the verses, which I, 
 Who was horn where the waters of Aufidus roar, 
 
 To the chords of the lyre with a cunning ally 
 Unknown to the hards of my country before! 
 
 Though Mseonian Homer unrivall'd may reign, 
 
 Yet are not the Muses Pindaric unknown, 
 The threats of Alcaeus, the Ceian's sad strain, 
 
 Nor stately Stesichorus' lordlier tone. 
 
 Unforgot is the sportive Anacreon's lay, 
 
 Still, still sighs the passion, unquench'd is the fire, 
 
 Which the Lesbian maiden in days far away 
 
 From her love-laden bosom breathed into the lyre. 
 
 Not alone has Lacsenian Helena's gaze 
 
 Been fix'd by the gloss of a paramour's hair, 
 
 By vestments with gold and with jewels ablaze , 
 By regal array, and a retinue rare; 
 
 Nor did Teucer first wield the Cydonian bow , 
 
 Nor was Troy by a foe but once harass'd and wrung; 
 
 Nor Idomeneus only, or Sthenelus show 
 
 Such prowess in war as deserved to be sung; 
 
 Nor yet was redoubtable Hector, nor brave 
 
 Deiphobus first in the hard-stricken field 
 By the dint of the strokes, which they took and they gave 
 
 Their babes and the wives of their bosoms to shield. 
 
186 ODE IX. TO LOLLIU.' 
 
 Many, many have lived, who were valiant in fight, 
 Before Agamemnon; but all have gone down, 
 
 Unwept and unknown, in the darkness of night, 
 For lack of a poet to hymn their renown. 
 
 Hidden worth differs little from sepulchred ease. 
 
 But, Lollius, thy fame in my pages shall shine; 
 I will not let pale-eyed Forgetfuiness seize 
 
 These manifold noble achievements of thine. 
 
 Thou, my friend, hast a soul, by whose keen-sighted range 
 
 Events afar off in their issues are seen, 
 A soul, which maintains itself still through each change 
 
 Of good or ill fortune erect and serene. 
 
 Of rapine and fraud the avenger austere, 
 
 To wealth and its all-snaring blandishments proof, 
 
 The Consul art thou not of one single year, 
 But as oft as a judge, from all baseness aloof, 
 
 Thou hast made the expedient give place to the right, 
 And flung back the bribes of the guilty with scorn, 
 
 And on through crowds warring against thee with might 
 Thy far-flashing arms hast triumphantly borne. 
 
 Not him, who of much that men prize is possess'd, 
 May'st thou fitly call 'blest'; he may claim to enjoy 
 
 More fitly, more truly, the title of 'blest', 
 
 Who wisely the gifts of the gods can employ; — 
 
 Who want, and its hardships, and slights can withstand, 
 And shrinks from disgrace as more bitter than death; 
 
 Not he for the friends whom he loves, or the land 
 Of his fathers will dread to surrender his breath. 
 
ODE X. TO A CRUEL BEAUTY. 187 
 
 Ode X. 
 
 TO A CRUEL BEAUTY. 
 
 Ah, cruel, cruel still, 
 
 And yet divinely fair, 
 When Time with fingers chill 
 
 Shall thin the wavy hair, 
 Which now in many a wanton freak 
 
 Around thy shoulders flows, 
 When fades the bloom, Avhich on thy cheek 
 
 Now shames the blushing rose; 
 
 Ah, then as in thy glass 
 
 Thou gazest in dismay, 
 Thou'lt cry, "Alas! Alas! 
 
 Why feel I not today, 
 As in my maiden bloom, when I 
 
 Unmoved heard lovers moan; 
 Or, now that I would win them, why 
 
 Is all my beauty flown ?" 
 
ODE XI. TO THYLLIS. 
 
 i 
 
 Ode XL 
 
 TO PHYLLIS. 
 
 I have laid in a cask of Albanian wine , 
 
 Which nine mellow summers have ripened and more; 
 In my garden, dear Phyllis, thy brows to entwine, 
 
 Grows the brightest of parsley in plentiful store. 
 There is ivy to gleam on thy dark glossy hair; 
 
 My plate , newly burnish' d , enlivens my rooms ; 
 And the altar , athirst for its victim , is there , 
 
 Enwreath'd with chaste vervain, and choicest of blooms. 
 
 Every hand in the household is busily toiling, 
 
 And hither and thither boys bustle and girls ; 
 Whilst, up from the hearth-fires careering and coiling, 
 
 The smoke round the rafter-beams languidly curls. 
 Let the joys of the revel be parted between us ! 
 
 'Tis the Ides of young April, the day which divides 
 The month, dearest Phyllis, of ocean-sprung Venus, 
 
 A day to me dearer than any besides. 
 
 And well may I prize it, and hail its returning — 
 
 My own natal day not more hallowed nor dear — 
 For Maecenas, my friend, dates from this happy morning 
 
 The life which has swell'd to a lustrous career. 
 You sigh for young Telephus : better forget him ! 
 
 His rank is not yours, and the gaudier charms 
 Of a girl that's both wealthy and wanton benet him, 
 
 And hold him the fondest of slaves in her arms. 
 
ODE XI. TO PHYLLIS. 189 
 
 Remember fond Phaethon's fiery sequel, 
 
 And heavenward- aspiring Bellerophon's fate; 
 And pine not for one who would ne'er he your equal, 
 
 But level your hopes to a lowlier mate. 
 So, come, my own Phyllis, my heart's latest treasure, — 
 
 Ah, ne'er for another this bosom shall long, — 
 And I'll teach, while your loved voice re-echoes the measure, 
 
 How to lighten fell care with the cadence of song-. 
 
190 ODE XII. TO VIRGIL. 
 
 Ode XII. 
 
 TO VIRGIL. 
 
 jSTow the soft gales of Thrace, that sing peace to the ocean, 
 Spring's handmaids, are wafting the barks from the shore, 
 
 There is life in the meads, in the groves there is motion, 
 And snow-swollen torrents are raving no more. 
 
 Now buildeth her nest, whilst for Itys still sadly 
 
 She mourns, the poor bird, who was fated to shame 
 
 The line of old Cecrops for ever, by madly 
 Avenging the brutal barbarian's flame. 
 
 On the young grass reclined, near the murmur of fountains, 
 The shepherds are piping the songs of the plains, 
 
 And the god, who loves Arcady's purple-hued mountains, 
 The God of the Flocks , is entranced by their strains. 
 
 And thirst, oh my Virgil, comes in with the season; 
 
 But if you'd have wine from the Calian press, 
 You must lure it from me by some nard, — and with reason, - 
 
 Thou favourite bard of our youthful noblesse. 
 
 Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius 
 
 A cask shall elicit , of potency rare 
 To endow with fresh hopes , dewy-bright and delicious , • 
 
 And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care. 
 
ODE XII. TO VIRGIL. 191 
 
 If you'd dip in such joys, come — the better, the quicker 
 But remember the fee — for it suits not my ends , 
 
 To let you make havoc, scot-free, with my liquor, 
 As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends. 
 
 To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy! — 
 In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain, 
 
 Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly, — 
 'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane! 
 
192 ODE XIII. TO LYCK. 
 
 Ode XIII. 
 
 TO LYCE. 
 
 Lyce, the gods have heard my prayer, 
 
 The gods have heard your ill-used lover, 
 You still would be thought both young and fair, 
 
 But you've lost your looks, and your hey-day's over: 
 You may tipsily wanton, and quaver, and trill, 
 But the love you would waken will slumber on still. 
 
 In the dimples of Chia's fair cheek he lies, 
 
 Chia that lilts to her lyre so sweetly; 
 From crabtrees insipid and old he flies, 
 
 And you, Lyce, you he forswears completely; 
 For your teeth don't keep, and your wrinkles are deep, 
 And your forehead is snow-capp'd, and rugged, and steep. 
 
 Not purple of Cos, nor gems star-bright, 
 
 Can recall the days that are gone and going; 
 
 Oh, where is the bloom and the smile of light, 
 And the step of grace, self-poised and flowing? 
 
 Of her, who my soul of itself bereft, 
 
 Who fired all with passion, ah, what is left? 
 
 Thou to Cinara next for charm of face, 
 
 And love-luring wiles on my heart wert graven; 
 
 But Cinara died in her youth's fresh grace, 
 Whilst thou art like to outlive the raven, 
 
 Dying down, a spent torch, into ashes and smoke, 
 
 The butt of each roystering youngster's joke ! 
 
ODK XIV. TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 193 
 
 Ode XIV. 
 
 TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 How shall the Fathers, how 
 Shall the Quiritians, oh Augustus, now, 
 Intent their honours in no niggard wise 
 Upon thee to amass, 
 By storied scroll, or monumental brass 
 Thy virtues eternise? 
 
 Oh thou who art, wherever shines the sun 
 
 On lands where man a dwelling-place hath won 
 
 Of princes greatest far, 
 Thee the Vindelici, who ever spurn' d 
 Our Latian rule, of late have learn'd 
 
 To know supreme in war! 
 
 For 'twas with soldiers thou hadst form'd, 
 
 That Drusus, greatly resolute, 
 On many a hard-won field o'erthrew the wild 
 
 Genaunians, and the Brenni fleet of foot, 
 And all their towering strongholds stonn'd , 
 
 On Alps tremendous piled. 
 
 Anon to deadliest fight 
 
 The elder Nero press'd, 
 And , by auspicious omens bless'd , 
 Scatter'd the giant Rhaetian hordes in flight. 
 
 Himself, that glorious day, 
 
 The foremost in the fray , 
 
 13 
 
194 ODE XIV. TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 With havoc dire did he 
 O'erwhelm that banded crowd 
 Of hearts in stern devotion vow'd 
 
 To die or to be free ! 
 Like Auster, lashing into ire 
 
 The tameless ocean-waves, when through 
 The driving rack the Pleiad choir 
 
 Flash suddenly in view, 
 So furiously he dash'd 
 
 Upon his serried foes, 
 
 And where their balefires thickest rose, 
 With foaming warsteed crash'd. 
 
 As bull-shaped Aufidus , who laves 
 Ap ulian Daunus' realm, 
 Is whirl' d along, when o'er his banks 
 He eddies and he raves, 
 Designing to o'erwhelm 
 The cultured fields with deluge and dismay, 
 So Claudius swept the iron ranks 
 Of the barbarian host, 
 And where from van to rear he clove his way, 
 Along his track the mangled foemen lay, 
 
 Nor did one squadron lost 
 The lustre dim of that victorious fray. 
 
 But thine the legions were, and thine 
 The counsels, and the auspices divine, 
 For on the self- same day, 
 That suppliant Alexandria had flung 
 
 Her port and empty palace wide to thee, 
 Did Fortune, who since then through lustres three 
 Had to thy banners smiling clung, 
 Bring our long Avars to a triumphant close, 
 
 
ODE XIV. TO AUGUSTUS. 195 
 
 And for thee proudly claim 
 The honour long desired, the glorious fame 
 
 Of countless vanquislvd foes, 
 And vanquish'd empires bow'd in homage to thy sway! 
 
 Thee the Cantabrian, unsubdued till now, 
 The Mede , the Indian , — thee 
 The Scythian roaming free, 
 
 Unwedded to a home , 
 With wondering awe obey, 
 
 Oh mighty Caesar, thou 
 Of Italy and sovereign Rome 
 The present shield, the guardian, and the stay! 
 Thee Nile , who hides from mortal eyes 
 
 The springs where he doth rise, 
 Thee Ister, arrowy Tigris thee, 
 Thee, too, the monster-spawning sea, 
 Which round far Britain's islands breaks in foam, 
 Thee Gallia, whom no form of death alarms, 
 Iberia thee, through all her swarms 
 
 Of rugged warriors, hears; 
 Thee the Sicambrian, who 
 Delights in carnage, too, 
 
 Now laying down his arms , 
 
 Submissively reveres ! 
 
 IV 
 
196 ODE XV. TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 Ode XV. 
 
 TO AUGUSTUS. 
 
 To vanquish' d town and battle fray 
 I wish'd to dedicate my lay, 
 When Phoebus smote his lyre, and sang, 
 And in his strain this warning rang, 
 'Spread not your tiny sails to sweep 
 The surges of the Tyrrhene deep!' 
 
 Thy era, Caesar, which doth bless 
 Our plains anew with fruitfulness , 
 Back to our native skies hath borne 
 Our standards from the temples torn 
 Of haughty Parthia, and once more, 
 The hurricane of warfare o'er, 
 Hath closed Quirinian Janus' fane, 
 On lawless license cast a rein, 
 And, purging all the land from crime, 
 Eecall'd the arts t>f olden time; 
 Those arts, by which the name and power 
 Of Italy grew hour by hour, 
 And Rome's renown and grandeur spread 
 To sunrise from Sol's western bed. 
 
 "While Caesar rules, no civil jar, 
 Nor violence our ease shall mar, 
 Nor rage, which swords for carnage whets, 
 And feuds 'twixt hapless towns begets. 
 
ODE XV. TO AUGUSTUS. 19" 
 
 The Julian Edicts who shall break? 
 Not they, who in the Danube slake 
 Their thirst, nor Serican, nor Gete, 
 Nor Persian, practised in deceit, 
 Nor all the ruthless tribes, beside 
 The Danube's darkly-rolling tide. 
 
 And we , on working clays and all 
 Our days of feast and festival, 
 Shall with our wives and children there 
 Approaching first the Gods in pray'r, 
 Whilst jovial Bacchus' gifts we pour, 
 Sing, as our fathers sang of yore, 
 To Lybian flutes , which answer round , 
 Of chiefs for mighty worth renown'd, 
 Of Troy, Anchises, and the line 
 Of Venus evermore benign! 
 
THE EPODES. 
 
EPODE I. TO M.ECEN^S. 201 
 
 Epode I. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 If thou in thy Liburuians go 
 Amid the bulwark 1 d galleys of the foe , 
 
 Resolved, my friend Maecenas, there 
 All Caesar's dangers as thine own to share , 
 
 AVhat shall Ave do, whose life is gay 
 Whilst thou art here, but sad with thee away? 
 
 Obedient to thy will, shall we 
 Seek ease, not sweet, unless His shared by thee? 
 
 Or shall we with such spirit share 
 Thy toils, as men of gallant heart should bear? 
 
 Bear them we will; and Alpine peak 
 Scale by thy side, or Caucasus the bleak; 
 
 Or follow thee with dauntless breast 
 Into the farthest ocean of the West. 
 
 And shouldst thou ask, how I could aid 
 Thy task, unwarlike I, and feebly made? 
 
 Near thee my fears, I answer, would 
 Be less, than did I absent o'er them brood; 
 
 As of her young, if they were left, 
 The bird more dreads by snakes to be bereft, 
 
 Than if she brooded on her nest, 
 Although she could not thus their doom arrest. 
 
 Gladly, in hopes your grace to gain, 
 I'll share in this or any fresh campaign! 
 
 Not, trust me, that more oxen may, 
 Yoked in my ploughshares, turn the yielding clay, 
 
202 
 
 EPODE I. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Nor that, to 'scape midsummer's heat, 
 My herds may to Lucanian pastures sweet 
 
 From my Calabrian meadows change; 
 Nor I erect upon the sunny range 
 
 Of Tusculum, by Circe's walls, 
 A gorgeous villa's far-seen marble halls! 
 
 Enough and more thy bounty has 
 Bestow'd on me; I care not to amass 
 
 Wealth either, like old Chremes in the play, 
 To hide in earth, or fool, like spendthrift heir, away! 
 
EPODE II. ALPHIUS. 203 
 
 Epode II. 
 
 ALPHIUS. 
 
 Happy the man, in busy schemes unskill'd, 
 Who, living simply, like our sires of old, 
 
 Tills the few acres, Avhich his father till'd, 
 Yex'd by no thoughts of usury or gold; 
 
 The shrilling clarion ne'er his slumber mars, 
 Nor quails he at the howl of angry seas; 
 
 He shuns the forum, with its wordy jars, 
 
 Nor at a great man's door consents to freeze. 
 
 The tender vine-shoots, budding into life, 
 He with the stately poplar-tree doth wed, 
 
 Lopping the fruitless branches with his knife ; 
 And grafting shoots of promise in their stead; 
 
 Or in some valley, up among the hills, 
 
 Watches his wandering herds of lowing kine, 
 
 Or fragrant jars with liquid honey tills, 
 Or shears his silly sheep in sunny shine; 
 
 Or when Autumnus o'er the smiling land 
 
 Lifts up his head with rosy apples crowned, 
 
 Joyful he plucks the pears, which erst his hand 
 
 Graff d on the stem, they 're weighing to the ground 
 
 Plucks grapes in noble clusters purple-dyed, 
 
 A gift for thee, Priapus, and for thee, 
 Father Sylvanus, where thou dost preside, 
 
 Warding his bounds beneath thy sacred tree. 
 
204 EPODE II. ALPHIUS. 
 
 Now he may stretch his careless limbs to rest, 
 Where some old ilex spreads its sacred roof; 
 
 Now in the sunshine lie, as likes him best, 
 On grassy turf of close elastic woof. 
 
 And streams the while glide on with murmurs low , 
 And birds are singing 'mong the thickets deep , 
 
 And fountains babble, sparkling as they flow, 
 And with their noise invite to gentle sleep. 
 
 But when grim winter comes, and o'er his grounds 
 Scatters its biting snows with angry roar, 
 
 He takes the field, and with a cry of hounds 
 Hunts down into the toils the foaming boar; 
 
 Or seeks the thrush, poor starveling, to ensnare, 
 In filmy net with bait delusive stored, 
 
 Entraps the travell'd crane, and timorous hare, 
 Rare dainties these to glad his frugal board. 
 
 Who amid joys like these would not forget 
 
 The pangs which love to all its victims bears, 
 
 The fever of the brain, the ceaseless fret, 
 And all the heart's lamentings and despairs? 
 
 But if a chaste and blooming wife, beside, 
 
 His cheerful home with sweet young blossoms fills, 
 
 Like some stout Sabine, or the sunburnt bride 
 Of the lithe peasant of the Apulian hills, 
 
 Who piles the hearth with logs well dried and old 
 Against the coining of her wearied lord," 
 
 And, when at eve the cattle seek the fold, 
 Drains their full udders of the milky hoard; 
 
EPODE II. ALPHIUS. 205 
 
 And bringing forth from her well-tended store 
 A jar of wine, the vintage of the year, 
 
 Spreads an unpurchased feast, — oh then, not more 
 Could choicest Lucrine oysters give me cheer, 
 
 Or the rich turbot, or the dainty char, 
 
 If ever to our bays the winter's blast 
 Should drive them in its fury from afar; 
 
 Nor were to me a welcomer repast 
 
 The Afric hen or the Ionic snipe, 
 
 Than olives newly gathered from the tree, 
 
 That hangs abroad its clusters rich and ripe, 
 Or sorrel, that doth love the pleasant lea, 
 
 Or mallows wholesome for the body's need, 
 Or lamb foredoom' d upon some festal day 
 
 In offering to the guardian gods to bleed, 
 
 Or kidling which the wolf hath mark'd for prey. 
 
 What joy, amidst such feasts, to see the sheep, 
 Full of the pasture, hurrying homewards come, 
 
 To see the wearied oxen, as they creep, 
 
 Dragging the upturn'd ploughshare slowly home! 
 
 Or, ranged around the bright and blazing hearth, 
 To see the hinds, a house's surest wealth, 
 
 Beguile the evening with their simple mirth, 
 And all the cheerfulness of rosy health! 
 
 Thus spake the miser Alphius; and, bent 
 
 Upon a country life, called in amain 
 The money he at usury had lent; 
 
 But ere the month was out, 'twas lent again. 
 
206 EPODE III. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Epode III. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 If his old father's throat any impious sinner 
 Has cut with unnatural hand to the bone , 
 
 Give him garlick, more noxious than hemlock, at dinner 
 Ye gods! The strong stomachs that reapers must own! 
 
 With what poison is this, that my vitals are heated? 
 
 By viper's blood — certes, it cannot be less — 
 Stew'd into the potherbs, can I have been cheated? 
 
 Or Canidia, did she cook the damnable mess? 
 
 When Medea was smit by the handsome sea-rover, 
 Who in beauty outshone all his Argonaut band, 
 
 This mixture she took to lard Jason all over, 
 
 And so tamed the fire-breathing bulls to his hand. 
 
 With this her fell presents she died and infected, 
 On his innocent leman avenging the slight 
 
 Of her terrible beauty, forsaken, neglected, 
 
 And then on her car, dragon-wafted, took flight. 
 
 Never star on Apulia, the thirsty and arid, 
 Exhaled a more baleful or pestilent dew, 
 
 And the gift, which invincible Hercules carried, 
 Burn'd not to his bones more remorselessly through. 
 
 Should you e'er long again for such relish as this is, 
 Devoutly I'll pray, friend Maecenas, I vow, 
 
 With her hand that your mistress arrest all your kisses , 
 And lie as far off as the couch will allow. 
 
EPODE IV. TO MENAS. 207 
 
 Epode IV. 
 
 TO MENAS. 
 
 Sucli hate as nature meant to be 
 'Twixt lamb and wolf feel I for thee , 
 Whose hide by Spanish scourge is tann'd, 
 And legs still bear the fetter's brand! 
 Though of jour gold you strut so vain, 
 Wealth cannot change the knave in grain. 
 How! See you not, Avhen striding down 
 The Via Sacra in your gown 
 Good six ells wide, the passers there 
 Turn on you with indignant stare? 
 "This wretch," such jibes your ear invade 
 "By the triumvir's scourges flay'd, 
 Till even the crier shirk'd his toil, 
 Some thousand acres ploughs of soil 
 Falernian, and with his nags 
 Wears out the Appian highway's flags; 
 Nay on the foremost seats, despite 
 Of Otho, sits and apes the knight. 
 What boots it to despatch a fleet 
 So large, so heavy, so complete 
 Against a gang of rascal knaves, 
 Thieves, corsairs, buccaniers and slaves, 
 If villain of such vulgar breed 
 Is in the foremost rank to lead?" 
 
208 EPODE V. THE WITCHES 1 ORGY. 
 
 Epode V. 
 
 THE WITCHES' ORGY. 
 
 "What, oh ye gods, who from the sky- 
 Rule earth and human destiny, 
 What means this coil? And wherefore be 
 These cruel looks all bent on me? 
 Thee by thy children I conjure , 
 If at their birth Lucina pure 
 Stood by; thee by this vain array 
 Of purple, thee by Jove I pray, 
 Who views with anger deeds so foul, 
 Why thus on me like stepdame scowl, 
 Or like some wild beast, that doth glare 
 Upon the hunter from its lair?" 
 
 As thus the boy in wild distress, 
 Bewail'd, of bulla stripp'd and dress, — 
 So fair, that ruthless breasts of Thrace 
 Had melted to behold his face, — 
 Canidia, with disheveird hair, 
 And short crisp vipers coiling there, 
 Beside a fire of Colchos stands, 
 And her attendant hags commands , 
 To feed the flames Avith figtrees torn 
 From dead men's sepulchres forlorn, 
 
EPODE V. THE WITCHES' ORGY. 209 
 
 With dismal cypress , eggs rubb'd o'er 
 
 With filthy toads' envenom'd gore, 
 
 With screech-owls' plumes, and herbs of bane, 
 
 From far Iolchos fetch'd and Spain, 
 
 And fleshless bones by beldam witch 
 
 Snatch'd from the jaws of famish'd bitch. 
 
 And Sagana, the while, with gown 
 
 Tuck'd to the knees, stalks up and down, 
 
 Sprinkling in room and hall and stair 
 
 Her magic hell-drops, with her hair 
 
 Bristling on end, like furious boar, 
 
 Or some sea-urchin wash'd on shore; 
 
 Whilst Veia, by remorse unstay'd, 
 
 Groans at her toil, as she with spade 
 
 That flags not digs a pit, wherein 
 
 The boy imbedded to the chin, 
 
 With nothing seen save head and throat, 
 
 Like those who in the water float, 
 
 Shall dainties see before him set, 
 
 A maddening appetite to whet , 
 
 Then snatch'd away before his eyes, 
 
 Till famish'd in despair he dies; 
 
 That when his glazing eye-balls should 
 
 Have closed on the untasted food, 
 
 His sapless marrow and dry spleen 
 
 May drug a philtre-draught obscene. 
 
 Nor were these all the hideous crew, 
 
 But Ariminian Folia, too, 
 
 Who with insatiate lewdness swells, 
 
 And drags by her Thessalian spells 
 
 The moon and stars down from the sky, 
 
 Ease-loving Naples vows, was by; 
 
 And every hamlet round about 
 
 Declares she was, beyond a doubt. 
 
 I 1 
 
210 El'ODK V. THE WITCHES 1 OKGY. 
 
 Now forth the fierce Canidia sprang-, 
 And still she gnaw'd with rotten fang* 
 Her long sharp unpared thumb-nail. What 
 Then said she? Yea, what said she not? 
 
 "Oh Night and Dian, who with true 
 And friendly eyes my purpose view, 
 And guardian silence keep, whilst I 
 My secret orgies safely ply, 
 Assist me now, now on my foes 
 With all your wrath celestial close! 
 Whilst, stretch' d in soothing sleep, amid 
 Their forests grim the beasts lie hid, 
 May all Suburra's mongrels bark 
 At yon old wretch, who through the dark 
 Doth to his lewd encounters crawl, 
 And on him draw the jeers of all ! 
 He's with an ointment smear'd, that is 
 My masterpiece. But what is this?- 
 Why, why should poisons brew'd by me 
 Less potent than Medea's be, 
 By which, for love betray 1 d, beguiled, 
 On mighty Creoles haughty child 
 She wreaks her vengeance sure and swift, 
 And vanish'd, when the robe, her gift, 
 In deadliest venom steep'd and dyed, 
 Swept off in flame the new-made bride? 
 No herb there is , nor root in spot 
 However wild, that I have not; 
 Yet every common harlot's bed 
 Seems with some rare Nepenthe spread, 
 For there he lies in swinish drowse, 
 Of me oblivious, and his vows! 
 
EPODE V. THE "WITCHES' OIIGY. 211 
 
 II 
 
 He is, aha! protected well 
 
 By some more skilful witch's spell! 
 
 But, Varus, thou, (doom'd soon to know 
 
 The rack of many a pain and woe !) 
 
 By potions never used before 
 
 Shalt to my feet he brought once more. 
 
 And 'tis no Marsian charm shall be 
 
 The spell that brings thee back to me! 
 
 A draught I'll brew more strong, more sure, 
 
 Thy wandering appetite to cure ; 
 
 And sooner 'neath the sea the sky 
 
 Shall sink , and earth upon them lie , 
 
 Than thou not burn with fierce desire 
 
 For :ne , like pitch in sooty fire !" 
 
 On this the boy by gentle tones 
 No more essay'd to move the crones, 
 But wildly forth with frenzied tongue 
 These curses Thyestean flung. 
 ,,Your sorceries, and spells, and charms 
 To man may compass deadly harms, 
 But heaven's great law of Wrong and Right 
 Will never bend before their might. 
 My curse shall haunt you, and my hate 
 No victim's blood shall expiate. 
 But when at your behests I die , 
 Like Fury of the Night will I 
 From Hades come, a phantom sprite, — 
 Such is the Manes' awful might, — 
 With crooked nails your cheeks I'll tear, 
 And squatting on your bosoms scare 
 With hideous fears your sleep away! 
 Then shall the mob, some future day, 
 
 1 I 
 
212 * EPODE V. THE WITCHES' ORGY. 
 
 Pelt you from street to street with stones, 
 
 Till falling- dead , ye filthy crones , 
 
 The dogs and wolves, and carrion fowl, 
 
 That make on Esquiline their prowl , 
 
 In banquet horrible and grim 
 
 Shall tear your bodies limb from limb. 
 
 Nor shall my parents fail to see 
 
 That sight, — alas, surviving mc!" 
 
EPODE VI. TO CASSIUS SEVERUS. 213 
 
 Epode VI. 
 
 TO CASSIUS SEVERUS. 
 
 Vile cur, why will you late and soon 
 
 At honest people fly? 
 You, you, the veriest poltroon 
 
 Whene'er a wolf comes by! 
 
 Come on, and if your stomach be 
 
 So ravenous for fight, 
 I'm ready! Try your teeth on me, 
 
 You '11 find that I can bite. 
 
 For like Molossian mastiff stout, 
 
 Or dun Laconian hound, 
 That keeps sure ward, and sharp look-out 
 • For all the sheepfolds round, 
 
 Through drifted snows with ears thrown back 
 
 I'm ready, night or day, 
 To follow fearless on the track 
 
 Of every beast of prey. 
 
 But you, when you have made the wood 
 With bark and bellowing shake, 
 
 If any thief shall fling you food, 
 The filthy bribe" will take. 
 
214 EP0DE VI. TO CASSIUS SEVERUS. 
 
 Beware, beware! For evermore 
 I hold such knaves in scorn, 
 
 And bear, their wretched sides to gore , 
 A sharp and ready horn; 
 
 Like him whose joys, Lycambes! dash'd, 
 
 Defrauding of his bride , 
 Or him, who with his satire lash'd 
 
 Old Bupalus till he died. 
 
 What ! If a churl shall snap at me , 
 
 And pester and annoy, 
 Shall I sit down contentedly, 
 
 And blubber like a boy? 
 
EPODE Vir. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 215 
 
 Epode VII. 
 
 TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 
 
 Ah, whither would ye, dyed in g'uilt, thus headlong rush? Or 
 
 why 
 Grasp your right hands the hattle -brands so recently laid by? 
 Say, can it be, upon the sea, or yet upon the shore, 
 That we have pour'd too sparingly our dearest Latian gore? 
 Not that yon envious Carthage her haughty towers should see 
 To flames devouring yielded up by the sons of Italy; 
 Or that the Briton, who has ne'er confess'd our prowess, may 
 Descend all gyved and manacled along the Sacred Way, 
 But that our Rome, in answer to Parthia's pray'r and moan, 
 Should by our hands, her children's hands, be crush'd and over- 
 thrown ? 
 Alas! Alas! More fell is ours than wolves 1 or lions' rage, 
 For they at least upon their kind no war unholy wage ! 
 What power impels you? Fury blind, or demon that would wreak 
 Revenge for your blood-guiltiness and crimes? Make answer! 
 
 Speak! 
 They 're dumb, and with an ashy hue their cheeks and lips 
 
 are dyed, 
 And stricken through with conscious guilt their souls are stu- 
 pefied ! 
 'Tis even so; relentless fates the sons of Rome pursue, 
 And his dread crime, in brother's blood who did his hands im- 
 brue; 
 For still for vengeance from the ground calls guiltless Remus' 
 
 gore , 
 By his descendants' blood to be atoned for evermore! 
 
216 EPODE IX. TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Epode IX. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 When, blest Maecenas, shall we twain 
 
 Beneath your stately roof a bowl 
 Of Caecuban long-hoarded drain , 
 
 In gladsomeness of soul, 
 For our great Caesar's victories, 
 
 Whilst, as our cups are crown'd , 
 Lyres blend their Doric melodies 
 
 With flutes 1 Barbaric sound? 
 
 As when of late that braggart vain , 
 
 The self-styled 'Son of Neptune' fled, 
 And far from the Sicilian main 
 
 With blazing ships he sped; 
 He, who on Rome had vow'd in scorn 
 
 The manacles to bind, 
 Which he from faithless serfs had torn , 
 
 To kindred baseness kind! 
 
 A Roman soldier, (ne'er, oh ne'er, 
 
 Posterity, the shame avow!) 
 A woman's slave, her arms doth bear, 
 
 And palisadoes now; 
 To wrinkled eunuchs crooks the knee , 
 
 And now. the sun beholds 
 'Midst warriors' standards flaunting' free 
 
 The vile pavilion's folds! 
 
 Madden'd to view this sight of shame, 
 Two thousand Gauls their horses wheel'd 
 
EPODE IX. TO M-ECEXAS. 
 
 217 
 
 And wildly shouting Caesar's name , 
 
 
 Deserted on the field; 
 
 
 T\ Lilst steering leftwise o'er the sea 
 
 
 The foeraen's broken fleet 
 
 
 Into the sheltering- haven flee 
 
 
 In pitiful retreat. 
 
 
 Ho, Triumph! Wherefore stay ye here 
 
 
 The nnbroke steers, the golden cars? 
 
 
 Ho! Never brought ye back his peer 
 
 
 From the Jugurthine wars! 
 
 
 Nor mightier was the chief revered 
 
 
 Of that old famous time, 
 
 
 Who in the wreck of Carthage rear'd 
 
 
 His cenotaph sublime! 
 
 
 Yanquish'd by land and sea, the foe 
 
 His regal robes of purple shifts 
 For miserable weeds of woe, 
 
 And o'er the wild-waves drifts, 
 Where Crete amid the ocean stands 
 
 With cities many a score, 
 Or where o'er Afrie's whirling sands 
 
 The Southern tempests roar. 
 
 Come, boy, and ampler goblets crown 
 
 With Chian or with Lesbian wine, 
 Or else our qualmish sickness drown 
 
 In C a? cub an divine! 
 Thus let us lull our cares and sighs, 
 
 Our fears that will not sleep, 
 For Coesar, and his great emprise, 
 
 In goblets broad and deep! 
 
218 EPODE X. AGATNST M^EVIUS. 
 
 Epode X. 
 
 AGAINST M.EVIUS. 
 
 Foul fall the clay, when from the bay 
 
 The vessel puts to sea, 
 That carries Maevius away, 
 
 That wretch unsavoury! 
 
 Mind, Auster, with appalling roar 
 That you her timbers scourge; 
 
 Black Eurus, snap each rope and oar 
 With the o'ertoppling surge! 
 
 Rise, Aquilo, as when the far 
 High mountain-oaks ye rend; 
 
 When stern Orion sets, no star 
 Its friendly lustre lend! 
 
 Seethe, ocean, as when Pallas turn'd 
 Her wrath from blazing Troy 
 
 On impious Ajax' bark, and spurn'd 
 The victors in their joy! 
 
 I see them now, your wretched crew, 
 All toiling might and main, 
 
 And you, with blue and deathlike hue, 
 Imploring Jove in vain! 
 
EPODE X. AGATNST MEATUS. 219 
 
 'Mercy, oh, mercy! Spare me! Pray!' 
 With craven moan ye call, 
 
 When founders in the Ionian bay 
 Your bark before the squall: 
 
 But if your corpse a banquet forms 
 
 For sea-birds, I'll devote 
 Unto the Powers that rule the Storms 
 
 A lamb and liquorish goat. 
 
220 EI>0DE XT. THE LOVEIt'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Epode XI. 
 
 THE LOVER'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Oh, Pettius! no pleasure have I, as of yore , 
 
 In scribbling of verse , for I'm smit to the core 
 
 By love, cruel love, avIio delights, false deceiver, 
 
 In keeping- this poor heart of mine in a fever. 
 
 Three winters the woods of their honours have stripp'd, 
 
 Since I for Inachia ceased to be hypp'd. 
 
 Good heavens! I can feel myself blush to the ears, ■ 
 
 When I think how I drew on my folly the sneers 
 
 And talk of the town; how, at parties, my stare 
 
 Of asinine silence, and languishing air, 
 
 The tempest of sighs from the depths of my breast, 
 
 All the love-stricken swain to my comrades confess'd. 
 
 'No genius,' I groan'd, whilst you kindly condoled, 
 
 'If poor, has the ghost of a chance against gold; 
 
 But if — here I grew more confiding and plain, 
 
 As the fumes of the wine mounted up to my brain — 
 
 'If my manhood shall rally, and fling to the wind 
 
 These maudlin regrets which enervate the mind, 
 
 But soothe not the Avound, then the shame of defeat 
 
 From a strife so unequal shall make me retreat.' 
 
 Thus, stern as a judge, having valiantly said, 
 
 Being urged by yourself to go home to my bed, 
 
 I staggered with steps, not so steady as free, 
 
 To a door which, alas! shows no favour to me; 
 
EPODE XI. THE LOVER'S CONFESSION. 221 
 
 And there on that threshold of beauty and scorn, 
 Heigho! my poor bones lay and ached till the morn. 
 Now I'm all for Lycisca — more mincing than she 
 Can no little woman in daintiness be — 
 A love , neither counsel can cure , nor abuse , 
 Though I feel, that with me it is playing the deuce, 
 But which a new fancy for some pretty face, 
 Or tresses of loose flowing amber, may chase. 
 
222 EPODE XIII. TO HIS FRIENDS. 
 
 Epode XIII. 
 
 TO HIS FKIENDS. 
 
 With storm and wrack the sky is black, and sleet and dashing 
 
 rain 
 With all the gather 1 d streams of heaven are deluging the plain; 
 Now roars the sea, the forests roar with the shrill north wind 
 
 of Thrace , 
 Then let us* snatch the hour, my friends, the hour that flies 
 
 apace, 
 Whilst yet the bloom is on our cheeks, and rightfully we may 
 With song and jest and jollity keep wrinkled age at ba} T ! 
 Bring forth a jar of lordly wine, whose years my own can 
 
 mate , 
 Its ruby juices stain'd the vats in Torquatus' consulate! 
 No word of any thiug that's sad; whate'er may be amiss 
 The Gods belike will change to some vicissitude of bliss! 
 With Achoeinenian nard bedew our locks, and troubles dire 
 Subdue to rest in every breast with the Cyllenian lyre! 
 So to his peerless pupil once the noble Centaur sang; 
 "Invincible, yet mortal, who from Goddess Thetis sprang, 
 Thee waits Assaracus's realm, where arrowy Simois glides, 
 That realm which chill Scamander's rill with scanty stream 
 
 divides , 
 Whence never more shalt thou return, — the Parcte so decree, 
 Nor shall thy blue-eyed mother home again e'er carry thee. 
 Then chase with wine and song divine each grief and trouble 
 
 there , 
 The sweetest surest antidotes of beauty-marring care!" 
 
EPODE XIV. TO MAECENAS. 223 
 
 Epode XIV. 
 
 TO MAECENAS. 
 
 Why to the core of my inmost sense 
 
 Doth this soul-palsying; torpor creep, 
 As though I had quaffed to the lees a di aught 
 
 Charged with the fumes of Lethean sleep ? 
 Oh gentle Maecenas! you kill me, when 
 
 For the poem I've promised so long you dun mi 
 I have tried to complete it again and again, 
 
 But in vain, for the ban of the god is on me. 
 
 So Bathyllus of Samos fired, they tell, 
 
 The breast of the Teian bard, who often 
 His passion bewail'd on the hollow shell, 
 
 In measures he stay'd not to mould and soften, 
 You, too, are on fire; but if fair thy flame 
 
 As she who caused Ilion its fateful leaguer, 
 Rejoice in thy lot; I am pining, oh shame! 
 
 For Phryne', that profligate little intriguer. 
 
224 EPODE XV. TO NJSERA. 
 
 Epode XV. 
 
 TO N^EERA. 
 
 'Twas night! — let me recall to thee that night! 
 
 The moon, slow-climbing the unclouded sky, 
 Amid the lesser stars was shining bright, 
 
 When in the words I did adjure thee by, 
 Thou with thy clinging arms, more tightly knit 
 
 Around me than the ivy clasps. the oak, 
 Didst breathe a vow — mock the great gods with it 
 
 A vow which, false one, thou hast foully broke; 
 That while the raven 1 d wolf should hunt the flocks , 
 
 The shipman's foe, Orion, vex the sea, 
 And Zephyrs lift the unshorn Apollo's locks, 
 
 So long wouldst thou be fond, be true to me! 
 
 Yet shall thy heart, Nseera, bleed for this, 
 
 For if in Flaccus aught of man remain, 
 Give thou another joys that once were his, 
 
 Some other maid more true shall soothe his pain; 
 Nor think again to lure him to thy heart! 
 
 The pang once felt, his love is past recall; 
 And thou, more favour'd youth, whoe'er thou art, 
 
 AVho revell'st now in triumph o'er his fall, 
 Though thou be rich in land and golden store, 
 
 In lore a sage , with shape framed to beguile , 
 Thy heart shall ache when, this brief fancy o'er, 
 
 She seeks a new love, and I calmly smile. 
 
EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 225 
 
 Epode XVI. 
 
 TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 
 
 Another age in civil wars will soon be spent and worn , 
 
 And by her native strength our Koine be wreck'd and overborne, 
 
 That Rome , the Marsians could not crush , who border on our 
 
 lands , 
 Nor the shock of threatening Porsena with his Etruscan bands, 
 Nor Capua's strength that rivall'd ours, nor Spartacus the stern, 
 Nor the faithless Allobrogian , who still for change doth yearn. 
 Ay, what Germania's blue-eyed youth quell'd not with ruthless 
 
 sword , 
 Nor Hannibal by our great sires detested and abhorr'd, 
 We shall destroy with impious hands imbrued in brother's gore, 
 And wild beasts of the wood shall range our native land once 
 
 more. 
 A foreign foe, alas! shall tread The City's ashes down, 
 And his horse's ringing hoofs shall smite her places of renown , 
 And the bones of great Quirinus, now religiously enshrined, 
 Shall be flung by sacrilegious hands to the sunshine and the wind. 
 And if ye all from ills so dire ask, how yourselves to free, 
 Or such at least as would not hold your lives unworthily, 
 No better counsel can I urge, than that which erst inspired 
 The stout Phocseans when from their doom'd city they retired, 
 Their fields, their household gods, their shrines surrendering as 
 
 a prey 
 To the wild boar and the ravening wolf; so we in our dismay, 
 Where'er our wandering steps may chance to carry us should go, 
 Or wheresoe'er across the seas the fitful winds may blow. 
 
 i:> 
 
226 EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 
 
 How think ye then? If Letter course none offer, why should we 
 
 Not seize the happy ausjnces , and boldly put to sea? 
 
 But let us swear this oath; — 'Whene'er, if e'er shall come 
 
 the time , 
 Rocks upwards from the deep shall float, return shall not be 
 
 crime ; 
 Nor we be loth to back our sails, the ports of home to seek, 
 When the waters of the Po shall lave Matinum's rifted peak , 
 Or skyey Apenninus down into the sea be roll'd, 
 Or wild unnatural desires such monstrous revel hold, 
 That in the stag's endearments the tigress shall delight, 
 And the turtle-dove adulterate with the falcon and the kite , 
 That unsuspicious herds no more shall tawny lions fear, 
 And the he-goat, smoothly sleek of skin, through the briny 
 
 deep career!' 
 This having sworn, and what beside may our returning stay., 
 Straight let us all, this City's doom'd inhabitants, away, 
 Or those that rise above the herd, the few of nobler soul; 
 The craven and the hopeless here on their ill-starr'd beds may 
 
 loll. 
 Ye who can feel and act like men, this woman's wail give o'er, 
 And fly to regions far away beyond the Etruscan shore! 
 The circling ocean waits us; then away, where nature smiles, 
 To those fair lands, those blissful lands, the rich and happy Isles ! 
 AVhere Ceres year by year crowns all the untill'd land with 
 
 sheaves , 
 And the vine with purple clusters droops, unpruned of all her 
 
 leaves; 
 Where the olive buds and burgeons , to its promise ne'er untrue, 
 And the russet fig adorns the tree, that graffshoot never knew; 
 Where honey from the hollow oaks doth ooze , and crystal rills 
 Come dancing down with tinkling feet from the sky-dividing hills ; 
 There to the pails the she-goats come, without a master's word, 
 And home with udders brimming broad returns the friendly herd; 
 
EPODE XVI. TO THE ROMAN PEOPLE. 22" 
 
 There round the fold no surly hear its midnight prowl doth make, 
 Nor teems the rank and heaving- soil with the adder and the 
 
 snake ; 
 There no contagion smites the flocks, nor hlight of any star 
 With fury of remorseless heat the sweltering herds doth mar. 
 Xor this the only hliss that waits us there , where drenching rains 
 By watery Eurus swept along ne'er devastate the plains , 
 Nor are the swelling seeds burnt up within the thirsty clods, 
 So kindly blends the seasons there the King of all the Gods. 
 That shore the Argonautic bark's stout rowers never gain'd, 
 Xor the wily she of Colchis with step unchaste profaned, 
 The sails of Sidon's gallies ne'er were wafted to that strand , 
 Xor ever rested on its slopes Ulysses' toil worn band; 
 For Jupiter, when he with brass the Golden Age alloy'd, 
 That blissful region set apart by the good to be enjoy'd; 
 With brass and then with iron he the ages sear'd, but ye 
 Good men and true to that bright home arise and follow me ! 
 
 1 5 
 
228 epode xvii. Horace's recantation to canidia. 
 
 Efode XVII. 
 
 HORACE'S RECANTATION TO CANIDIA. 
 
 Here at thy feet behold me now 
 
 Thine all-subduing skill avow, 
 
 And beg of thee on suppliant knee, 
 
 By realms of dark Persephone, 
 
 By Dian's awful might, and by 
 
 Thy books of charms which from the sky 
 
 Can drag the stars, Canidia, 
 
 To put thy magic sleights away, 
 
 Reverse thy whirling wheel amain, 
 
 And loose the spell that binds my brain! 
 
 Even Telephus to pity won 
 
 The ocean-cradled Thetis' son, 
 
 'Gainst whom his Mysian hosts he led, 
 
 And his sharp-pointed arrow sped. 
 
 The man-destroying Hector , doom'd 
 
 By kites and dogs to be consumed, 
 
 Was natheless by the dames of Troy 
 
 Embalm'd, when, mourning for his boy, 
 
 King Priam left his city's wall, 
 
 At stern Achilles' feet to fall. 
 
 Ulysses' stalwart rowers , too , 
 
 Away their hide of bristles threw 
 
 At Circe's word, and donn'd again 
 
 The shape, the voice, the soul of men. 
 
 Enough of punishment, I'm sure, 
 
 Thou hast compell'd me to endure, 
 
EPODE XVII. HORACE'S RECANTATION TO CANIDIA. 229 
 
 Enough and more, thou being dear 
 
 To pedlar and to raarinere ! 
 
 My youth has fled , my rosy hue 
 
 Turn'd to a wan and livid blue ; 
 
 Blanch'd by thy mixtures is my hair; 
 
 No respite have I from despair. 
 
 The days and nights , they wax and wane , 
 
 But bring me no release from pain; 
 
 Xor can I ease, howe'er I gasp, 
 
 The spasm which holds me in its grasp. 
 
 So am I vanquish'*!, so recant, 
 
 Unlucky wretch! my creed, and grant, 
 
 That Sabine spells can vex the wit, 
 
 And heads by Marsic charms be split. 
 
 What wouldst thou more? Oh earth! Oh sea! 
 
 Nor even Alcides burned like me , 
 
 With Nessus 1 venom'd gore imbued, 
 
 Nor .■Etna in its fiercest mood; 
 
 For till my flesh, to dust calcined, 
 
 Be scatter'd by the scornful wind, 
 
 Thou glow'st a very furnace fire , 
 
 Distilling Colchian poisons dire ! 
 
 When will this end? Or what may be 
 
 The ransom, that shall set me free? 
 
 Speak! Let the fine be what it may, 
 
 That fine most rigidly Til pay. 
 
 Demand a hundred steers, Avith these 
 
 Thy wrath I'm ready to appease! 
 
 Or wouldst thou rather so desire 
 
 The praise of the inventive lyre , 
 
 Thou, chaste and good, shalt range afar 
 
 The spheres, thyself a golden star! 
 
 Castor, with wrath indignant stung, 
 
 And Castor's brother, by the tongue, 
 
230 epodk xvi t. Horace's recantation to canidia. 
 
 That slander'd Helena the fair, 
 Yet listen' d to the slanderer's pray'r, 
 Forgave the bard the savage slight, 
 Forgave him, and restor'd his sight. 
 Then drive, for so thou canst, this pain 
 This wildering frenzy from my brain! 
 Oh thou, untainted by the guile 
 Of parentage depraved and vile, 
 Thou, who dost ne'er in haglike wont, 
 Among the tombs of paupers hunt 
 For ashes newly laid in ground, 
 Love-charms and philtres to compound, 
 Thy heart is gentle, pure thy hands; 
 And there thy Partumeius stands, 
 Reproof to all, who dare presume 
 With barrenness to charge thy womb; 
 For never dame more sprightly rose 
 Or lustier from childbed throes! 
 
EPODK XVTT. CANIDIA's REPT.Y. 23i 
 
 CANIDIA'S KEPLY. 
 
 Why pour your prayers to heedless ears? 
 Not rocks, Avhen Winter's blast careers, 
 Lash'cl by the angry surf, are more 
 Deaf to the seaman dash'd on shore ! 
 What! Think, unpunish'd to deride, 
 And rudely rend the veil aside, 
 That shrouds Cotytto's murky rites, 
 And love's, unfetter' d love's, delights? 
 And, as though you high-priest might be 
 Of Esquilinian sorcery, 
 Branding my name with ill renown, 
 Make me the talk of all the town? 
 Where then my gain, that with my gold 
 I bribed Pelignian beldames old, 
 Or master'd by their aid the gift 
 To mingle poisons sure and swift? 
 You'd have a speedy doom? But no, 
 It shall be lingering, sharp, and slow. 
 Your life, ungrateful wretch! shall be 
 Spun out in pain and misery, 
 And still new tortures, woes, and pangs 
 Shall gripe you with relentless fangs ! 
 Yearns Pelops' perjured sire for rest, 
 Mock'd by the show of meats unblest, 
 For rest, for rest Prometheus cries, 
 As to the vulture chain'd he lies, 
 And Sisyphus his rock essays 
 Up to the mountain's top to raise : 
 
 
232 EPODE XVII. canidia's reply. 
 
 Still clings the curse, for Jove's decree 
 Forbids them ever to be free. 
 So you would from the turret leap, 
 So in your breast the dagger steep , 
 So , in disgust with life , would fain 
 Go hang yourself, — but all in vain! 
 Then comes my hour of triumph , then 
 I'll goad you till you writhe again; 
 Then shall you curse the evil hour, 
 You made a mockery of my power! 
 Think ye, that I who can at will 
 Move waxen images — my skill 
 You , curious fool ! know all too well — 
 That I who can by mutter' d spell 
 The moon from out the welkin shake, 
 The dead ev'n from their ashes wake, 
 And mix the chalice to inspire 
 With fierce unquenchable desire , 
 Shall my so-potent art bemoan 
 As impotent 'gainst thee alone? 
 
TO APOLT.O AND DIANA. 235 
 
 TO APOLLO AND DIANA. 
 
 Phoebus, and Dian, forest queen, 
 Heaven's chiefest light sublime, 
 Ye, who high-worshipp'd evermore have been, 
 And shall high-worshipp'd be for evermore , 
 
 Fulfil the prayers, which at this sacred time 
 To you we pour; 
 This time, when, prompted by the Sybil's lays, 
 
 Virgins elect, and spotless youths unite 
 To the Immortal Gods a hymn to raise 
 
 Who in the seven-hill' d City take delight! 
 
 Benignant sun, who with thy car of flame 
 Briiig'st on the day, 
 And takest it away, 
 And still art born anew, 
 Another, yet the same, 
 In all thy wanderings may'st thou nothing view , 
 
 That mightier is than Rome , 
 The empress of the world, our mother, and our home! 
 
 Oh Ilithyia , of our matrons be 
 
 The guardian and the stay, 
 And as thine office is, unto the child 
 
 Who in the womb hath reach'd maturity, 
 
 Gently unbar the way, 
 Whether Lucina thou Avouldst rather be, 
 
 Or Genitalis styled! 
 
236 THE SECULAR HYMN. 
 
 Our children, goddess, rear in strength and health, 
 And with thy blessing crown 
 
 The Senate's late decree, 
 The nuptial law, that of our dearest wealth 
 The fruitful source shall be , — 
 A vigorous race, who to posterity 
 Shall hand our glory,' and our honours down! 
 So, as the circling years, ten-times eleven, 
 Shall bring once more this season round, 
 
 Once more our hymns shall sound, 
 Once more our solemn festival be given, 
 
 Through three glad days, devoted to thy rites, 
 Three joyous days, and three not less delightsome nights! 
 
 And you, ye Sister Fates, 
 Who truly do fulfil 
 What doom soever, by your breath decreed, 
 
 In the long vista of the future waits , 
 As ye have ever made our fortunes speed, 
 Be gracious to us still! 
 
 And oh! may Earth, which plenteous increase bears 
 Of fruits , and corn , and wine , 
 A stately coronal for Ceres twine 
 Of the wheat's golden shocks, 
 And healthful waters and salubrious airs 
 Nourish the yeanling flocks! 
 
 Aside thy weapons laid, Apollo, hear 
 With gracious ear serene 
 The suppliant youths, who now entreat thy boon! 
 And thou, of all the constellations queen, 
 Two-horned Moon, 
 To the young maids give ear! 
 
TO APOLLO AXD DIANA. 237 
 
 If Rome be all thy work, if Trojan bands 
 
 Upon tbe Etruscan sbore have won renown , 
 That chosen remnant, who at thy commands 
 
 Forsook their hearths, and homes, and native town; 
 If all unscathed through Ilion's flames they sped 
 
 By sage -3£neas led, 
 And o'er the ocean-waves in safety fled, 
 
 Destined from him, though of his home bereft, 
 A nobler dower to take, than all that they had left! 
 
 Ye powers divine , 
 Unto our docile youth give morals pure ! 
 
 Ye powers divine, 
 To placid age give peace , 
 And to the stock of Romulus ensure 
 Dominion vast, a never failing line, 
 And in all noble things still make them to increase ! 
 
 And oh! may he who now 
 To you with milk-white steers uplifts his pray'r, 
 
 Within whose veins doth flow 
 Renown' d Anchises' blood, and Venus' ever fair, 
 
 Be still in war supreme, yet still the foe 
 His sword hath humbled spare! 
 
 Now, even now the Mcde 
 Our hosts omnipotent by land and sea, 
 And Alban axes fears; the Scythians, late 
 So vaunting, and the hordes of Ind await, 
 On low expectant knee, 
 What terms soe'er we may be minded to concede. 
 Now Faith, and Peace, and Honour, and the old 
 Primeval Shame, and Worth long held in scorn, 
 To reappear make bold, 
 
238 THE SECULAK HYMN. 
 
 And blissful Plenty, with her teeming* horn, 
 Doth all her smiles unfold. 
 
 And oh! may He, the Seer divine, 
 God of the fulgent bow, 
 Phoebus, beloved of the Muses nine, 
 Who for the body rack'd and worn with woe 
 
 By arts remedial finds an anodyne , 
 If he with no unloving eye doth view 
 
 The crested heights and halls of Palatine, 
 
 On to a lustre new 
 Prolong the weal of Rome, the blest Estate 
 Of Latium, and on them, long ages through, 
 Still growing honours, still new joys accumulate! 
 
 And may She , too , who makes her haunt 
 On Aventine and Algidus alway, 
 May She, Diana, grant 
 The pray'rs , which duly here 
 The Fifteen Men upon this festal day 
 
 To her devoutlv send , 
 And to the youths' pure adjurations lend 
 No unpropitious ear! 
 
 Now homeward we repair, 
 
 Full of the blessed hope , that will not fail , 
 That Jove and all the Gods have heard our pray'r, 
 
 And with approving smiles our homage hail, — 
 We skiird in choral harmonies to raise 
 The hymn to Phoebus and Diana's praise. 
 
NOTE'S TO THE LIFE. 241 
 
 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 Satire 6. B. 1. p. VIII. A large portion of this satire, which 
 is addressed to Maecenas, throws so much light upon the life and 
 character of Horace, that a translation of it from line 45. to 
 the close is subjoined. 
 
 Now to myself, the freedman's son, come I, 
 Whom all the mob of gaping fools decry, 
 Because, forsooth, I am a freedman's son; 
 My sin at present is , that I have won 
 Thy trust, Maecenas; once in this it lay, 
 That o'er a Roman legion I bore sway 
 As Tribune , — surely faults most opposite ; 
 For though , perchance , a man with justice might 
 Grudge me the tribune's honours, why should lie 
 Be jealous of the favour shewn by thee, — 
 Thee who, unsway'd by fawning wiles, art known 
 To choose thy friends for honest worth alone? 
 Lucky I will not call myself, as though 
 Thy friendship I to mere good fortune owe. 
 No chance it was secured me thy regards; 
 But Virgil first, that best of friends and bards, 
 And then kind Varius mentioned what I was. 
 Before you brought, with many a faltering pause, 
 Dropping some few brief words, (for bashfulness 
 Robb'd me of utterance,) I did not profess, 
 That I was sprung of lineage old and great, 
 Or used to canter round my own estate , 
 
 10 
 
242 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 On Satureian barb , but what and who 
 I am as plainly told. As usual, you 
 Brief answer make me. I retire, and then, 
 Some nine months after summoning me again, 
 You bid me 'mongst your friends assume a place: 
 And proud I feel, that thus I won thy grace, 
 Not by an ancestry long known to fame , 
 But by my life , and heart devoid of blame. 
 
 Yet if some trivial faults,^ and these but few, 
 My nature , else not much amiss , imbue , 
 Just as you wish away, yet scarcely blame, 
 A mole or two upon a comely frame; 
 If no man may arraign me of the vice 
 Of lewdness, meanness, nor of avarice; 
 If pure and innocent I live, and dear 
 To those I love, (self-praise is venial here,) 
 All this I owe my father, who, though poor, 
 Lord of some few lean acres, and no more, 
 Was loth to send me to the village school, 
 Whereto the sons of men of mark and rule , — 
 Centurions, and the like, — were wont to swarm*, 
 With slate and satchel on sinister arm, 
 And the poor dole of scanty pence to pay 
 The starveling teacher on the quarter day; 
 But boldly took me when a boy to Rome, 
 There to be taught all arts, that grace the home 
 Of knight and senator. To see my dress, 
 And slaves attending, you'd have thought, no less 
 Than patrimonial fortunes old and great 
 Had furnish'd forth the charges of my state. 
 When with my tutors, he would still be by, 
 Nor ever let me wander from bis eye; 
 And in a word he kept me chaste, (and this 
 Is virtue's crown) from all that was amiss, 
 
NOTES TO THE LIFE. 243 
 
 Nor such in act alone, but in repute, 
 
 Till even scandal's tattling voice was mute. 
 
 No dread had he, that men might taunt or jeer, 
 
 Should I, some future day, as auctioneer, 
 
 Or, like himself, as tax-collector seek 
 
 With petty vails my humble means to eke. 
 
 Nor should I then have murmur'd. Now I know, 
 
 More earnest thanks , and loftier praise I owe. 
 
 Reason must fail me, ere I cease to own 
 
 With pride , that I have such a father known ; 
 
 Nor shall I stoop my birth to vindicate, 
 
 By charging, like the herd, the wrong on Fate, 
 
 That I was not of noble lineage sprung: 
 
 Far other creed inspires my heart and tongue. 
 
 For now should Nature bid all living men 
 
 Retrace their years, and live them o'er again, 
 
 Each culling, as his inclination bent, 
 
 His parents for himself, with mine content, 
 
 I would not choose, whom men endow as great 
 
 With the insignia and the seats of state; 
 
 And, though I seem'd insane to vulgar eyes, 
 
 Thou wouldst perchance esteem me truly wise , 
 
 In thus refusing to assume the care 
 
 Of irksome state I was unused to bear. 
 
 For then a larger income must be made, 
 Men's favour courted, and their whims obey'd, 
 Nor could I then indulge a lonely mood, 
 Away from town, in country solitude, 
 For the false retinue of pseudo-friends, 
 That all my movements servilely attends. 
 More slaves must then be fed, more horses too, 
 And chariots bought. Now have I nought to do, 
 If I "would even to Tarentum ride, 
 But mount my bob-tail'd mule, my wallets tied 
 
 l(i* 
 
244 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 Across his flanks, which, flapping as we go, 
 
 With my ungainly ancles to and fro, 
 
 Work his unhappy sides a world of weary woe. 
 
 Yet who shall call me mean, as men call thee, 
 
 Oh Tillius, when they oft a praetor see 
 
 On the Tiburtine Way with five poor knaves, 
 
 Half-grown, half-starved, and overweighted slaves 
 
 Bearing, to save your charges when you dine, 
 
 A travelling kitchen, and a jar of wine. 
 
 Illustrious senator, more happy far, 
 I live than you, and hosts of others are! 
 I walk alone, by mine own fancy led, 
 Enquire the price of potherbs and of bread, 
 The circus cross to see its tricks and fun, 
 The forum , too , at times near set of sun ; 
 With other fools there do I stand and gape 
 Round fortune-tellers' stalls, thence home escape 
 To a plain meal of pancakes, pulse, and peas; 
 Three young boy-slaves attend on me with these. 
 Upon a slab of snow-white marble stand 
 A goblet, and two beakers; near at hand, 
 A common ewer, patera, and bowl, — 
 Campania's potteries produced the whole. 
 To sleep then I, unharass'd by the fear, 
 That I tomorrow must betime-s appear 
 At Marsyas' base , who vows he cannot brook 
 Without a pang the Yo^vnger Novius' look. 
 I keep my couch till ten, then walk a while, 
 Or having read or writ what may beguile 
 A quiet after hour, anoint my limbs 
 With oil , not such as filthy Natta skims] 
 From lamps defrauded of their unctuous fare. 
 And when the sunbeams, grown too hot fo bear, 
 

 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 245 
 
 Warn me to quit the field, and hand-ball play, 
 
 The bath takes all my weariness away. 
 
 Then having lightly dined, just to appease 
 
 The sense of emptiness , I take mine ease , 
 
 Enjoying all home's simple luxury. 
 
 This is the life of bard unclogg'd. like me, 
 
 By stern ambition's miserable weight. 
 
 So placed , I own with gratitude , my state 
 
 Is sweeter, ay, than though a quaestor's power 
 
 From sire and grandsires' sires had been my dower. 
 
 Even in what may be assumed to be his earliest poems, the fire of 
 genuine passion is wanting, p. XX. Horace's exquisite susceptibility 
 to beauty of course subjected him to many transient passions, of 
 which traces are apparent in the poems here more particularly 
 referred to. But even in these it is quite clear that his ad- 
 miration, though it may preoccupy his thoughts, or even rob him 
 of his sleep, never elevates him out of himself. It suggests no 
 images beyond those of sensual gratification; it involves no 
 sorrow beyond a temporary disappointment soon to be solaced 
 elsewhere. His heart is untouched. 
 
 Very different is it with Catullus and other Roman erotic p 
 Their mistresses are to them both mistresses and muses, — at 
 once their inspiration and their reward. Loving intensely, and 
 with constancy, their fervour animated and has won immortality 
 for their song. Had they not loved deeply, they would probably 
 never have written. Thus Propertius acknowledges his obliga- 
 tions to his mistress; — 
 
 Queeritur unde mini toties scribuntwr amoves, 
 
 Unde mens veniat mollis in ore liber ? 
 Son mihi Calliope, non luce mild cant at Apollo, 
 Ingenium nobis ipsa puelia ftdt. 
 
24G NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 Do you ask, how in hues ever varied and glowing, 
 
 Love flashes and gleams in my verses so oft, 
 Or would you discover what keeps them still flowing 
 
 In honey-like cadences warbling and soft? 
 It is not Calliope kindles my fancies , 
 
 It is not Apollo that wakens my lyre , 
 But my girl, that illumines my brain with her glances, 
 
 And hangs on my lips, till she tips them with fire. 
 
 Horace has no such acknowledgment to make. Song was not 
 to him the medium in which the throbbing heart of imaginative 
 passion found relief. He was to the last keenly alive to the 
 charms of the sex; but neither in his youth nor riper years 
 were they his inspiration. 
 
 The difference between the poetry of passion and fancy can 
 scarcely be better exemplified, than by contrasting his love 
 poems with those of Catullus, of which Lesbia is the theme. 
 Even, if we did not know, that the latter were the records 
 of an actual liaison, the unmistakeable sincerity of the emotion 
 which they breathe would place the fact beyond a doubt. Ca- 
 tullus manifestly loved this woman with all his heart. She be- 
 came false, and even abandoned herself to the lowest licentious- 
 ness; but her hold upon his affections, even when esteem was 
 gone, remained the same, and his verses pourtray with touching 
 force the anguish of the infatuated heart, which clings to a 
 beloved object, of whose worthlessness it is convinced, unable to 
 dethrone it from the supremacy, which yet it reluctantly avows. 
 They reflect the various phases of the lover's feelings with the 
 liveliest truth — his joys, his doubts, his anguish, his self- 
 contempt. Let the reader, for evidence of this, glance with 
 us over the various poems, which have made his Lesbia im- 
 mortal. 
 
 She is introduced to us playing off the engaging but torment- 
 ing artifices of the coquettish beauty in the following lines. 
 
NOTES TO THE LIFE. 947 
 
 Sparrow, my dear lady's joy, 
 Who with thee delights to toy. 
 Thee within her breast to fold, 
 And her fair forefinger hold 
 Out for thee to bite its tip, 
 Whilst I sit by with quivering lip , 
 And she , with playful arts like these , 
 Affects to keep a bright-eyed ease, 
 And hide her j^assion's pleasing pain, 
 That runs, like fire, through every vein! 
 "With thee, like her, I fain would play, 
 And chase my bosom's grief away; 
 And thou shouldst welcome be to me, 
 As in the legend old, we see, 
 The magic apple was to her, 
 Whose icy heart no youth could stir, — 
 The golden fruit, which loosed the zone , 
 And bade her Love's dominion own. 
 But the sparrow dies, and, like a true lover, Catullus thus 
 pens a woful sonnet on the occasion: — 
 
 Loves and Graces , mourn with me , 
 Mourn, fair youths, where'er ye be! 
 Dead my Lesbia's sparrow is, 
 Sparrow, that was all her bliss; 
 Than her very eyes more dear , — 
 For he made her dainty cheer, 
 Knew her well, as any maid 
 Knows her mother, — never stray'd 
 From her lap, but still would go 
 Hopping round her to and fro, 
 And to her, and none but she, 
 Piped and chirrup'd prettily. 
 Now he treads that gloomy track , 
 Whence none ever may come back. 
 
248 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 Out upon you, and your power, 
 Which all fairest things devour, 
 Orcus' gloomy shades, that e'er 
 Ye took my bird, that was so fair! 
 Oh vilely done ! Oh , dismal shades ! 
 On you I charge it, that my maid's 
 Dear little eyes are swollen and red, 
 With weeping for her darling dead; 
 
 Never had lady's pet a cenotaph like this, in which the tri- 
 viality of the theme is forgotten in the artistic beauty of the 
 work. Such lines could scarcely fail to raise him high in favour 
 with the distracted beauty, to whom he could now address the 
 following pleasant admonition: — 
 
 Let us give our little day 
 All to love , my Lesbia , 
 Heeding not the precepts sage, 
 Nor the frowns of crabbe'd age ! 
 When the sun sets , 'tis to rise 
 Brighter in the morning skies; 
 But, when. sets our little light, 
 We must sleep in endless night. 
 Give me then a thousand kisses, 
 Add a hundred to my blisses , 
 Then a thousand more, and then 
 Add a hundred once again. 
 Crown me with a thousand more , 
 Give a hundred as before, 
 Cease not then, but kiss me still, 
 Adding hundreds, thousands r till, 
 Lost in exquisite sensation, 
 We confound all calculation, 
 And no envy mar our blisses, 
 Hearing of such heaps of kisses! 
 
NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 249 
 
 This style of advice has been a mania in the poetical world 
 ever since. Thus our own Carew expands the first part of the 
 theme. 
 
 Oh love me then, and now begin it, 
 Let me not lose the present minute; 
 For time and age will work that wrack, 
 Which time or age shall ne'er call back. 
 The snake each year fresh skin resumes, 
 And eagles change their aged plumes; 
 The faded rose each spring receives 
 A fresh red tincture on her leaves; 
 But if your beauties once decay, 
 You never know a second May. 
 Oh then he wise, and whilst your season 
 Affords you days for sport, do reason; 
 Spend not in vain your life's short hour, 
 But crop in time your beauty's flower, 
 Which will away, and doth together 
 Both bud and fade, both blow and wither. 
 Hcnick again lias caught up the latter part of Catullus's 
 strain very happily in the following lines. 
 
 Ah, my Anthea, must my heart still break? 
 Love makes me write what shame forbids to speak. 
 Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score, 
 Then to that twenty add a hundred more — 
 A thousand to that hundred — so kiss on 
 To make that thousand up a million, 
 Treble that million, and when that is done, 
 Let's kiss afresh as when we first began! 
 But hear Catullus again upon the same ever interesting theme. 
 Dost thou, Lesbia, bid me say 
 
 How many kisses from thy lip 
 I'd take, ere I would turn away, 
 And of its sweets no longer sip! 
 
250 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 
 
 Count the grains of sand are roll'd 
 
 On Cyrene's spicy plain , 
 'Twixt the tomb of Battus old, 
 
 And the sweltering Hammon's fane. 
 
 Count the silent stars of night, 
 
 That be ever watching, when 
 Lovers tasting stolen delight 
 
 Dream not of their silent ken. 
 
 When these numbers thou hast told, 
 And hast kisses given as many, 
 
 Then, perchance, I may cry Hold! 
 And no longer wish for any, 
 
 But, my love, there 's no amount 
 
 Tor my raging thirst too vast, 
 Which a curious fool may count, 
 
 Or with tongue malignant blast. * 
 
 But the sun does not always shine, even in the heaven of 
 love. Pretty Polly's fancy will "stray to some neAver lover. 1 ' 
 Lesbia has thrown the handkerchief elsewhere. Catullus sees 
 that he has outlived her liking, and thus he remonstrates. 
 
 Sigh no more, thou foolish wight! 
 
 Catullus, be a man — and deem 
 That, which thou seest hast perish'd quite, 
 
 To be like an evanish'd dream. 
 
 Oh, life was once a heaven to thee! 
 
 Her eyes beam'd at thy coming then — 
 The maid beloved, as ne'er shall be 
 
 Maiden beloved by thee again. 
 
 * The concluding- lines of this and the poem last cited from Catullus bolh 
 refer to the superstition held by many modern nations in common with the old 
 Romans, that whatever could not be coun'ed was exempt from the influence of 
 magic, and vice versa. 
 
NOTES TO THE LIFE. 251 
 
 Then didst thou freely taste the bliss, 
 
 On which impassioned lovers feed; 
 AVhen she repaid thee kiss for kiss, 
 
 Oh, life was then a heaven indeed! 
 
 'Tis past! Forget as she forgot! 
 
 Lament no more — hut let her go! 
 Tear from thy heart each tender thought, 
 
 That round her image there did grow ! 
 
 Girl, fare thee well! Catullus ne'er 
 
 Will sue, where love is met with scorn; 
 
 But, false one, thou with none to care 
 For thee, on thy lone couch shalt mourn! 
 
 Think what a waste thy life shall he! 
 
 "Who'll woo thee now? who praise thy charms? 
 Who shall he all in all to thee, 
 
 Thy heart's love nestling in thy arms? 
 Who now will give thee kiss for kiss? 
 
 Whose lip shalt thou in rapture bite? 
 And in thy lone hours think of this, 
 My heart has cast thee from it quite. 
 Clodia, for such was Lesbia's real name, was a woman, as 
 we learn from Cicero's witty oration in defence of Caelius, who 
 abandoned herself to the whole round of dissipations, which 
 lay open, in a luxurious city like Rome, to a rich and pro 
 fligate beauty. We know that she numbered in her train of 
 admirers men of the first families in the city; but she. seems 
 to have pursued her pleasures with an indiscriminate appetite, 
 which was not scrupulous as to the character or rank of her 
 associates. To this Catullus alludes more than once, and, in 
 particular, in a poem to Cadius, couched in terms of the bitterest 
 disgust. That he was unable, notwithstanding, to maintain 
 the resolution to forget her expressed in the poem just quoted 
 was only to be anticipated. The wanton beauty held hi in in 
 
252 NOTES TO THE ETFE. 
 
 her meshes, and he was as ready to be deceived with his eyes 
 open as ever. After some temporary reconciliation he probably 
 wrote these caustic lines. 
 
 My mistress says, there's not a man 
 
 Of all the many swains she knows, 
 She'd rather wed than me, not one, 
 
 Though Jove himself were to propose. 
 
 She says so;— but what woman says 
 
 To him who thinks his tale has caught her, 
 
 'Tis only fit it should be writ 
 In air or in the running water. 
 
 Such must ever be the Jeremiad of him who fixes his affec- 
 tions on a "weed of glorious feature" like Lesbia. Well for 
 him if he can tear it from his heart! Catullus could not. With 
 all her faults, he loved her as passionately as before; but how- 
 changed that love! There is deep pathos in the following: — 
 
 You told me, — ah, well I remember the hour! 
 
 That still to Catullus thy heart should be true, 
 That, blest with his heart's love, thy best, brightest dower, 
 
 Even Jove at thy feet unregarded might sue. 
 Then I loved thee, and oh! what a passion was mine! 
 
 Undimmed by dishonour, unsullied by shame, 
 Oh, 'twas pure as a sire round his child might entwine, 
 
 To guard its dear head with the sheltering flame. 
 
 Now I know thee, how faithless, how worthless thou art! 
 
 That the stain of dishonour is dark on thy brow, 
 And though thou may'st still be the queen of my heart, 
 
 How changed the emotions I feel for thee now! 
 No more the pure being my fancy adored, 
 
 With incense sent up from love's hallowing fire , 
 Thou hast fallen, and my heart, to thy infamy loAver'd, 
 
 Is cursed with the rage of degrading desire. 
 

 NOTES TO THE LIFE. 253 
 
 In a similar mood must he have written the following cou- 
 plet: — 
 
 I hate and love — wherefore I cannot tell, 
 
 But by my tortures know the fact too well. 
 Once more, however, the temptress threw her fascinations a- 
 round him. His scorn of her fickleness, and her frailty, — the 
 bitter promptings of his own self-reproach were forgotten, and 
 he wrote thus: 
 
 Oh Lesbia, surely no mortal was ever 
 
 So fond of a woman as I am of you — - 
 A youth more devoted, more constant was never; — 
 To me there's enchantment in all that you do. 
 
 Yes, love has so wholly confused my ideas 
 
 Of right and of wrong, that I'll doat on you still, 
 As fondly, as blindly, although you may be as 
 Chaste or as naughty as ever you will! 
 Every lover recognises the truth of the following lines, which 
 were probably written when Catullus had l)een alienated from 
 her side by some of their lovers' quarrels. 
 
 Lesbia rails at me, they say, 
 Talks against me all the day. 
 May I die, but I can tell 
 By this, that Lesbia loves me well! 
 
 Would you know my reason, Sir? 
 
 Even so I rail at her. 
 
 But may I die, but T can tell 
 
 I love my Lesbia but too well? 
 
 The symptom is, we believe, infallible. Sec how it ended 
 
 with Catullus! One day, as he lay meditating very possiby 
 
 his fine tale of 
 
 Ariadne passioning 
 
 For Theseus' perjuries and unjust flight 
 
 the lady walked into his apartment, We leave him to tell the 
 
 rest. 
 
254 NOTES TO THE LTFE. 
 
 There's not a joy we have so strong, 
 
 As when some wish by chance is granted, 
 
 For which, though hugg'd and cherish'd long, 
 Without a hope we long had panted. 
 
 Such was my joy, my glad surprise, 
 
 When gloom around my head was closing, 
 
 To find thee, with thy ardent eyes, 
 Once more within my arms reposing. 
 
 You came to me — unsought you came — 
 And brought with you delight the rarest, 
 
 When Hope had left Love's drooping flame ; 
 Oh day of days the brightest, fairest! 
 
 What living man more blest than I, 
 
 So lapp'd and throughly wrapp'd in blisses! 
 All human fancy I defy 
 
 To feign a greater joy than this is! 
 Under such circumstances Avhat could Catullus do? There 
 was a tear glistening in the soft eyes of his mistress, as she 
 begged forgiveness, and promised constancy for the future. 
 Catullus kissed it away, and addressed her thus: — 
 Oh, my soul's joy, and dost thou wish, as now, 
 
 That evermore our love burn strong and clear? 
 Ye gods , grant she be faithful to her vow , 
 
 And that 'tis uttered from a heart sincere ! 
 So may each year that hurries o'er us find, 
 
 While others change with life's still changing hue, 
 The ties that bind us now more firmly twined, 
 Our hearts as fond, our love as warm and true. 
 Lesbia's vow was , of course , broken , and the great king 
 of gods and men, who "laughs at lovers' perjuries," was thus 
 passionately invoked by the unfortunate lover in a way that 
 leaves no doubt upon the subject. 
 
NOTES TO THE LIFE. 255 
 
 If there be joy for him who can retrace 
 
 His life, and see some good deeds shining there, 
 
 Who never plighted vows, in the dread face 
 Of heaven, to lure another to his snare; 
 
 Then many a joy through many a smiling year 
 For thee, Catullus, is there yet in store, 
 
 Eequital of thy truth to one so dear, 
 
 So false as she, the maid thou dost adore. 
 
 Why longer keep thy heart upon the rack? 
 
 Give to thy thoughts a higher, nobler aim! 
 The gods smile on thy path; then look not back 
 
 In tears upon a love that was thy shame. 
 
 'Tis hard at once to fling a love away , 
 
 That has been cherish'd with the faith of years. 
 
 'Tis hard — but 'tis thy duty. Come, what may, 
 Crush every record of its joys, its fears! 
 
 Oh ye great gods, if you can pity feel, 
 
 If e'er to dying wretch your aid was given, 
 
 See me in agony before you kneel, 
 
 To beg this curse may from me far be driven, 
 
 That creeps in drowsy horror through each vein, 
 Leaves me no thought from bitter anguish free. 
 
 I do not ask, she may be kind again, 
 
 No, nor be chaste, for that may never be ! 
 
 I ask for peace of mind — a spirit clear 
 
 From the dark taint that now upon it rests. 
 Give then, oh give, ye gods, this boon so dear 
 To one who ever hath revered thy 'bests! 
 With this ends what remains to us of the poems relating <<> 
 Lesbia, — a fasciculus, which presents in vivid colours that con- 
 flict of emotions which must even- spring from love wasted upon 
 profligate inconstancy. 
 
256 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 ODE I. p. 3. 
 
 Mcecenas, sprung from monarchs old. C. Cilnius Maecenas belonged 
 to the family of the Cilnii, descendants of Cilnius of Arretium, 
 one of the Lucmnones, or princes of Etruria. It is to this cir- 
 cumstance, that Horace alludes here, and in the Ode 39, B. Ill, 
 line I. Maecenas never accepted any of the high offices of state, 
 preferring to remain a mere knight; a rank of which, to judge 
 by the emphasis with which Horace dwells upon it in more 
 than one poem, he appears to have been proud. In the words 
 of Mr. Newman, he was "the chief commoner of Rome," but 
 "whatever his nominal relation to the state, was more powerful 
 than Senators and Magistrates." (The Odes of Horace, Translated 
 by F. TV. Newman. London 1853. p. 3.) 
 
 Golden Attalus. Attalus III, last king of Pergamus, bequeathed 
 his possessions to the Roman people. B. C. 133. 
 
 Africus. The W.S.W. wind. 
 
 Massic old. The Massic wine, the produce of Mons Massicus, 
 in Campania, like the Falernian, which came from another side 
 of the mountain, was highly esteemed. 
 
 ODE II. p. 6. 
 
 Rising in ire, to avenge his Ilia's plaint. Ilia, the mother 
 by Mars of Romulus and Remus, was drowned in the Anio, a 
 tributary of the Tiber, to the god of which latter river Horace 
 here assumes her to have been wedded. Her "plaint" is for 
 the death of her descendant, Julius Caesar. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 257 
 
 The Marsiari's flashing eye, and fateful port. The Marsi, the 
 most warlike people of Italy, are named here as representative 
 of the Roman soldiery in general. 
 
 ODE IV. p. 10. 
 
 Our own poet Carew had this Ode and the 7. Ode of the 
 Fourth Book (ante]). 181) in his mind, when he wrote the fol- 
 lowing lines on the Spring. 
 
 Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost 
 Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost 
 Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream 
 Upon the silver lake or crystal stream: 
 But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth , 
 And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth 
 To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree 
 The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee. 
 Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring, 
 In triumph to the world, the youthful Spring; 
 The vallies, hills, and woods in rich array 
 Welcome the coming of the long'd for May. 
 Now all things mile; only my Love doth lour; 
 Nor hath our scalding noonday sun the power 
 To melt that marble ice, w T hich still doth hold 
 Her heart congeal'd, and make her pity cold. 
 The ox that lately did for shelter fly 
 Into the stall, doth now securely lie 
 In open fields; and love no more is made 
 By the fireside; but in the cooler shade 
 Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep 
 Under a sycamore, and all things keep 
 Time with the season — only she doth tarry, 
 June in her eyes, in her heart January. 
 Malherbe in his beautiful poem of condolence to his friend 
 
 IT 
 
258 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 M. du Perrier on the loss of a daughter, adopts in one stanza 
 the thought and almost the words of Horace. But indeed the 
 whole poem is so thoroughly Horatian in spirit, and expression, 
 that it might almost seem to have flowed from the pen of the 
 Venusian bard. To those who are not already familiar with 
 the poem, the following stanzas of it will be welcome. 
 
 Je sais de quels appas son enfance e'tait pleine, 
 Et n'ai pas entrepris, 
 
 Injurieux ami, de soulager ta peine 
 Avecque son mepris. 
 
 Mais elle e'tait du monde, ou les plus belles choses 
 
 Ont le pire destin; 
 Et, rose, elle a ve'cu ce que vivent les roses, 
 
 L'espace d'un matin. 
 
 * * * 
 
 La mort a des rigueurs a nulle autre pareilles; 
 
 On a beau la prier; 
 La cruelle qu'elle est se bouche les oreilles, 
 
 Et nous laisse crier. 
 
 Le pauvre en sa cabane, ou le chanme le couvre, 
 
 Est sujet a ses lois; 
 Et la garde qui veille aux barrieres du Louvre 
 
 N'en defend point nos rois. 
 
 De murmurer contre elle et perdre patience 
 
 II est mal a propos; 
 Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science , 
 Qui nous met en repos. 
 In exquisite finish of expression nothing finer than these lines 
 can be desired, and there runs through them a vein of feeling 
 more delicately tender than is to be found anywhere in Horace. 
 This was probably due to the purer faith of the modern, which 
 insensibly coloured the almost Pagan tone of the poem. Malherbe 
 made Horace his breviary, — with what effect, these lines prove. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 259 
 
 ODE IX. p. 17. 
 
 Allan Ramsay's paraphrase of this Ode has all the freshness 
 and vigour of Horace, with added touches of his own, not un- 
 worthy of the original. 
 
 Look up to Pentland's tow'ring taps, 
 
 Buried beneath great wreaths of snaw, 
 O'er ilka cleugh, ilk "scaur and slap, 
 As high as ony Roman wa\ 
 
 Driving their ba's frae whins or tee, 
 
 There's no ae gowfer to be seen, 
 Nor douser fouk wysing ajee 
 
 The byas bowls on Tamson's green. 
 
 Then fling on coals, and rype the ribs, 
 And beek the house baith butt and ben, 
 
 That mutchkin stoup , it hauds but dribs , 
 Then let's get in the tappit hen. 
 
 Good claret best keeps out the cauld, 
 And drives away the winter soon; 
 
 It makes a man baith gash and bauld, 
 And heaves his saul beyond the moon. 
 
 Leave to the gods your ilka care, 
 
 If that they think us worth their while , 
 
 They can a rowth o' blessings spare, 
 Which will our fashious fears beguile. 
 
 For what they have a mind to do, 
 
 That will they do , though we gang wad ; 
 
 If they command the storms to blaw, 
 Then upo' sight the hail-stanes thud. 
 
 But soon as e'er they cry, Be quiet, 
 
 The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move, 
 
 But cower into their caves, and wait 
 The hig-h command of sov'rcign Jove. 
 
 17* 
 
260 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 Let neist day come as it thinks fit, 
 The present minute's only ours ; 
 
 On pleasure let's employ our wit, 
 
 And laugh at fortune's feckless pow'rs. 
 
 Be sure ye dinna quit the grip 
 Of ilka joy, when ye are young, 
 
 Before aiild age your vitals nip, 
 And lay ye twafauld o'er a rung. 
 
 Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time; 
 
 Then lads and lasses, while it's May, 
 Gae pou the gowan in its prime, 
 
 Before it wither and decay. 
 
 Watch the saft minutes of delight, 
 
 When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, 
 
 And kisses, laying a' the wyte 
 On you, if she kep any skaith. 
 
 'Haith! ye 're ill-bred!' she '11 smiling say, 
 'Ye '11 worry me, ye greedy rook!' 
 
 Syne frae your arms she '11 rin away, 
 And hide hersell in some dark nook. 
 
 Her laugh will lead you to the place 
 Where lies the happiness you want, 
 
 And plainly tells you to your face , 
 Nineteen nay-says are half a grant. 
 
 Now to her heaving bosom cling, 
 
 And sweetly toolie for a kiss, 
 Frae her fair finger whop a ring, 
 
 As taiken of a future bliss. 
 
 These benisons, I'm very sure, 
 Are of the gods indulgent grant; 
 
 Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear 
 To plague us wi' your whining cant. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 261 
 
 Allan Ramsay attempted versions of other Odes, but this was 
 his only success. — 
 
 ODE. XIII. p. 24. 
 
 Oh, trebly blest, and blest for ever &c. Moore has paraphrased 
 this passage in the favourite lines. 
 
 There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told , 
 
 When two, that are link'd in one heavenly tie, 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold, 
 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till they die! 
 One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
 
 Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss; 
 And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth 
 
 It is this, it is this! 
 
 ODE XVI. p. 29. 
 
 Dindymene herself &c. Cybele, an Asiatic goddess, called by 
 the Greeks "the mother of the Gods," was called Dindymene 
 from mount Dindymus in Phrygia. She is represented as roam- 
 ing through the world in a chariot drawn by lions, attended by 
 her priests the Galli and Corybantes. Their orgies were of a 
 peculiarly wild and excited character. The Atys of Catullus, 
 one of the most picturesque poems of antiquity, breathes all the 
 frenzy, which was believed to inspire her votaries. The follow- 
 ing version gives only a faint idea of this fine poem — the 
 hurried sweep and whirl of the verse, its broken cadences, its 
 wild pathos, and headlong energy. 
 
 ATYS. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly, o'er the ocean Atys urged his flying bark, 
 Swiftly leapt to land, and plung'd into the Phrygian forest dark, 
 Where the mighty goddess dwells, and furious with a dark 
 
 despair 
 Snatch'd from the rock a pointed flint, and reft himself of man- 
 hood there. 
 
262 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 And when he felt his manhood gone, and saw the gore-bedabbled 
 
 grass , 
 Up in his snowy hands he caught the timbrel light, that with 
 
 the brass 
 Of clanging trumpets swells thy rites, great mother Cybele, and 
 
 smote 
 The sounding skin, and thus unto his mates he sang with frenzied 
 
 throat. 
 
 "Away, away, ye sexless ones, to Cybele's high groves," he said. 
 "Away, ye truant herd, and hail your mistress, Dindymene dread! 
 Ye exiles to strange lands, avIio dared with me the ruthless 
 
 ocean's storms, 
 And, loathing woman and her love, emasculate your lusty forms! 
 
 "Rejoice, rejoice, what revelries our mistress has in store for us! 
 No laggard fears retard ye now ! On to the steep of Dindymus ! 
 Hence to her Phrygian shrine with me ! On to her Phrygian 
 
 forests speed! 
 Where drums and echoing cymbals crash, and drones the curved 
 
 Phrygian reed. 
 
 "Where raving Mrenads wildly toss their ivy-circled brows about, 
 Where they affright the haunts divine with wailing shrill and 
 
 piercing shout, 
 Where to and fro and up and down, unresting evermore they 
 
 stray, 
 There must we pay our vows, and join the mystic dance — 
 
 away, away!" 
 
 He ceased, and his companions all with eldritch howl repeat 
 
 the strain , 
 
 The timbrel light, the cymbal's clash reverberate along the plain; 
 
 To Ida's leafy mountain straight along the dusky pines they sped, 
 
 With Atys, raging, panting, crazed, careering breathless at 
 
 their head. 
 
NOTES TO ROOK FIKST OF ODES. 263 
 
 On, on lie flew, the maddening' crew whirled after — at the 
 
 shrine they stopped; 
 
 There, wan and wearied, lifelessly they all upon the threshold 
 
 dropped ; 
 
 All faint and fasting down they sank — a soft repose their 
 
 frenzy dims , 
 
 And leaden sleep seals up their eyes, and 'numbs their over- 
 wearied limbs. 
 
 But when the sun had bathed the earth, and sea, and sky with 
 
 golden light, 
 
 And with his thunder-pacing steeds had chased away the shades 
 
 of night, 
 
 Sleep, leaving then the fevered brain of Atys calm'd with 
 
 downy rest, 
 
 Flew to divine Pasithea, and sank upon her gentle breast. 
 
 The frenzied dream was past, and when the wretch saw what 
 
 it was and where, 
 
 Again it tottered to the shore, in agony of fierce despair, 
 
 There , gazing on the ocean's wide and waste expanse with 
 
 streaming eyes , 
 
 With choked and broken voice unto the country of its birth it 
 
 cries. 
 
 "My country, oh my country, my mother, and my nurse! From 
 
 whom 
 
 I, like a recreant slave, have fled to Ida's dreary forest- 
 gloom , 
 
 To rocks and snows, and frozen dens, to make with beasts my 
 
 savage lair, 
 
 Where dost thou lie, thou loved land, my country, oh, my 
 
 country, where? 
 
264 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 "Oh, let me see thee, whilst my brain is yet awhile from mad- 
 ness free ! 
 
 Wretch, must I house in these grim woods, far, far from home 
 
 unceasingly: 
 
 Friends, country, parents, all, all gone! — the throng-, the struggle 
 
 for the goal, 
 
 The wrestler's gripe — oh misery! — weep, weep, for ever weep, 
 
 my soul! 
 
 "What grace, what beauty, but was mine? Boy, youth, and 
 
 man, I was the flower 
 Of the gymnasium; and the best, that wore the oil, confess'd 
 
 my power: 
 My doors were ever throng'd, and when I left my couch at break 
 
 of day, 
 Fair garlands hung by beauteous hands around them welcomed 
 
 me alway. 
 
 "What am I now? Slave to the gods — crazed votary of horrid 
 
 rites — 
 
 Maimed, barren, ever doomed to freeze on Ida's green and snow- 
 girt heights , 
 
 'Neath Phrygia's frowning crags, where roam the stag and forest- 
 ranging boar, 
 
 Woe, woe, that e'er I did the deed! that e'er I touched this 
 
 fatal shore !" 
 
 The wandering winds caught up the words, as from his rosy 
 
 lips they fell, 
 
 And bore those sounds so strangely wild to where the blest im- 
 mortals dwell; 
 
 They reached the ears of Cybele, who loosed her lions from 
 
 the yoke , 
 
 And thus to him was on the left in words of kindling ire she spoke : 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 265 
 
 "Away, away, pursue your prey! Scare, scare him back iu wild 
 
 affright , 
 Back to the woods, the wretch that spurns my service, and that 
 
 scorns my might, 
 Lash, lash thy flanks , with furious roar shake terror from thy 
 
 shaggy mane , 
 Away, away!" She ceased, and flung upon his neck the loosen'd rein! 
 
 Frantic and fierce, Avith roar and plunge the monster through 
 
 the thicket crash'd, 
 
 And on to the surf-beaten shore, where stood the gentle Atys, 
 
 dash'd. 
 
 The wretch beheld him — wild with fear, into the shaggy forest 
 
 fled, 
 
 And there in orgies drear a life of ministering bondage led. 
 
 Oh goddess ever to be feared, oh goddess great and wonderous, 
 Oh Cybele divine, that hast thy reign on shady Dindymus, 
 Oh may thy madness never touch my heart, nor blast my 
 
 trembling brain, 
 In others let thy visions wild, thy frenzied inspirations reign! 
 
 ODE XVII. p. 31. 
 
 My own sweet Lucretilis &c. Ustica's low vale. Horace here in- 
 vites the fair Tyndaris to visit him at his Sabine Villa. Lucre- 
 tilis and Ustica are hills in its neighbourhood. Mr. Newman, 
 whose tenderness for Horace's morals goes so far as obviously 
 to cost him serious personal uneasiness, thinks them in no danger 
 in this instance. "The whole tone towards Tyndaris," he says, 
 is fatherly, as well as genial." Certainly the paternal character 
 of the relation does not strike the common reader. The lady, 
 it is to be surmised, was no Lucretia; and solus cum sold, says 
 the Canon, non presumitur orare ; least of all when, as in this 
 
266 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 case, the gentleman undertakes to console the lady for the cruel 
 usage of a former admirer. Still there may be comfort for Mr. 
 Newman. Horace invites Tyndaris to visit him; but did she 
 go? As a counterpart to the picture suggested by this Ode of 
 the pleasant woodland festival of the poet and the celebrated 
 singer, where the talk, (Greek, probably) would be polished and 
 witty, and the repast "light and choice, of Attic taste, with 
 wine," let us take the picture of a homelier kind of festival, 
 kindred in character, if not quite so refined, which Virgil has 
 painted in his Copa. The one is a cabinet sketch by Watteau, 
 the other a gallery picture dashed in with the broad brush, and 
 vivid colours of Rubens. 
 
 THE TAVERN DANCING GIRL. 
 
 See the Syrian girl, her tresses with the Greek tiara bound, 
 Skill'd to strike the castanets, and foot it to their merry sound, 
 Through the tavern's reeky chamber, with her cheeks all flush'd 
 
 with wine , 
 Strikes the rattling reeds, and dances, whilst around the guests 
 
 recline! 
 "Wherefore thus, footsore and weary, plod through summer's 
 
 dust and heat? 
 Better o'er the wine to linger, laid in yonder cool retreat! 
 There are casks, and cans, and goblets, — roses, fifes, and 
 
 lutes are there , — 
 Shady walks, where arching branches cool for us the sultry air. 
 There from some Msenalian grotto, all unseen, some rustic maid 
 Pipes her shepherd notes, that babble sweetly through the listen- 
 ing glade. 
 There, in cask pitch'd newly over, is a vintage clear and strong; 
 There, among the trees, a brooklet brawls with murmur hoarse 
 
 along ; 
 There be garlands, where the violet mingling with the crocus 
 
 blows , 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 267 
 
 Chaplets of the saffron twining- through the blushes of the rose; 
 
 Lilies, too, which Acheloes shall in wicker baskets bring, 
 
 Lilies fresh and sparkling, newly dipp'd within some virgin spring-. 
 
 There are little cheeses also, laid between the verdant rushes, 
 
 Yellow plums, the bloom upon them, which they took from Au- 
 tumn's blushes , 
 
 Chestnuts, apples ripe and rosy, cakes which Ceres might ap- 
 plaud; 
 
 Here, too, dwelleth gentle Amor; here with Bacchus, jovial god! 
 
 Bloodred mulberries, and clusters of the trailing- vine between, 
 
 Rush-bound cucumbers are there, too, with their sides of bloomy 
 
 green. 
 
 There, too, stands the cottage-guardian, in his hand a willow-hook, 
 
 But he bears, no other weapon; maidens unabash'd may look. 
 
 Come, my Alibida, hither! See, your ass is fairly beat! 
 
 Spare him , as I know you love him. How he's panting- with 
 
 the heat! 
 
 Now from brake and bush is shrilling the cicada's piercing note; 
 
 E'en the lizard now is hiding in some shady nook remote. 
 
 Lay ye down! — to pause were folly — by the glassy fountain's 
 
 brink , 
 
 Cool your goblet in the crystal , cool it ever, ere you drink. — 
 
 Come, and let your wearied body 'neath the shady vine repose, 
 
 Come, and bind your languid temples with a chaplet of the rose! 
 
 Come, and ye shall gather kisses from the lips of yon fair girl; 
 
 He, whose forehead ne'er relaxes, ne'er looks sunny, is a churl! 
 
 Why should we reserve these fragrant garlands for the thank- 
 less dust? 
 
 Would ye that their sweets were gather'd for the monumental 
 
 bust? 
 
 Wine there ! — Wine and dice ! — Tomorrow's fears shall fools 
 
 alone benumb ! 
 
 By the ear Death pulls me. "Live!" he whispers softly, "Live! 
 
 I come!" 
 
268 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 Baehr, in his History of Roman Literature, suggests that that 
 this poem was written, not by Virgil, but by the Valgius Rufus, 
 to whom Horace addressed the Ninth Ode of the Second Book. 
 
 (p. 77. ante.) 
 
 ODE XX. p. 36. 
 
 This Ode is either an invitation to Maecenas to visit the poet 
 at his farm, (Maecenas's gift) or, more probably, a note written 
 with the view of preparing the luxurious statesman for the 
 homely fare of the place, on hearing that he intended to pay 
 him a visit. The age of the homegrown wine is marked by a 
 flattering allusion to an incident, which had manifestly gratified 
 Maecenas greatly, — the applause of the theatre on his first 
 appearance there after recovering from a dangerous illness. 
 Horace makes another reference to the same occurrence (B. II. 
 Ode 17. p. 94 ante). The theatre referred to was that built by 
 Pompey, after the Mithridatic war, on the opposite side of the 
 Tiber from Mount Vatican. The wines mentioned in the last 
 stanza were all high-class Italian wines. The Caecuban was 
 from a district of Latium, near Amyclae and Fundi. The wines 
 of Cales and Falernum, like the Massic wine, were from Cam- 
 pania. Formiae, now Mola di Gaeta, in Latium was supposed 
 to be the capital of the Lsestrygons. The wines of Campania, 
 according to Pliny, were the finest. 
 
 ODE XXII. p. 38. 
 
 Of the Aristius Fuscus, to whom this Ode is addressed, nothing 
 is known, except that Horace ranks him (Satires I. 10. 1. 83) 
 with his friends Plotius, Varius, Maecenas, Virgil and others, 
 and addressed to him the following Epistle , the Tenth of the 
 First Book. 
 
 To Fuscus, our most city-loving friend, 
 We, lovers of the country, greeting send — 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 269 
 
 We , whom in this most diverse views divide , 
 
 Though well-nigh twins in everything- beside. 
 
 True mental brothers we — what one denies 
 
 The other questions; and in self-same wise 
 
 Are we in fancies one , in tastes , in loves , 
 
 As any pair of year-long mated doves. 
 
 You keep the nest; I love the country brooks, 
 
 The moss-grown rocks, and shady woodland nooks. 
 
 And why? Because I live and am a king, 
 
 The moment I can far behind me fling 
 
 What you extol with rapture to the skies; 
 
 And, like the slave that from the temple flies, 
 
 Because on sweet-cakes he is daily fed, 
 
 So I, a simple soul, lack simple bread, 
 
 With honey'd dainties pall'd and surfeited. 
 
 If it be proper, as it ever was, 
 To live in consonance with nature's laws; 
 Or if we'd seek a spot, whereon to raise 
 A home to shelter our declining days, 
 What place so fitting as the country? Where 
 Comes nipping winter with a kindlier air? 
 Where find we breezes balmier to cool 
 The fiery dog-days, when the sun's at full? 
 Or where is envious care less apt to creep , 
 And scare the blessings of heart-easing sleep? 
 Is floor mosaic, gemm'd with malachite, 
 One half so fragrant or one half so bright 
 As the sweet herbage? Or the stream town-fed, 
 That frets to burst its cerements of lead, 
 More pure than that which shoots and gleams along, 
 Murmuring its low r and lulling undersong? 
 Nay, nay, your veriest townsman loves to shade 
 Witli sylvan green his stately colonnade; 
 
270 NOTES TO BOOK FIKST OF ODES. 
 
 And his is deemed the finest house which yields 
 
 The finest prospect of the open fields. 
 
 Turn Nature, neck-and-shoulders, out of door, 
 
 She'll find her way to where she was before ; 
 
 And imperceptibly in time subdue 
 
 Wealth's sickly fancies, and her tastes untrue. 
 
 The man that's wholly skill-less to descry 
 The common purple from the Tyrian dye , 
 Will take no surer harm , nor one that more 
 Strikes to his marrow in its inmost core, 
 Than he who knows not with instinctive sense 
 To sever truth from falsehood and pretence. 
 Whoe'er hath wildly wantoned in success, 
 Him will adversity the more depress. 
 AVhat's dearly prized we grudgingly forego. 
 Shun mighty aims ; the lowliest roof may know 
 A life that more of heartfelt comfort brings, 
 Than kings have tasted, or the friends of kings. 
 
 Once on a time a stag, at antlers' point, 
 Expelled a horse he'd worsted, from the joint 
 Enjoyment of the pasture both had cropp'd: 
 Still, when he ventured near it, rudely stopped, 
 The steed called in man's aid, and took the bit: 
 Thus backed, he charged the stag, and conquer'd it. 
 But woe the while! nor rider, bit, nor rein 
 Could he shake off, and be himself again. 
 So he , who , fearing poverty , hath sold 
 His freedom, better than uncounted gold, 
 Will bear a master and a master's laws, 
 And be a slave unto the end, because 
 He will not learn, what fits him most to know, 
 How far, discreetly used, small means will go. 
 Whene'er our mind's at war with our estate, 
 Like an ill shoe, it trips us if too great; 
 
IOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 271 
 
 Too small, it pinches. Thou art wisely bent 
 To live, Aristius, with thy lot content; 
 Nor wilt thou fail to chide in me the itch , 
 Should it infect me, to be greatly rich; 
 For hoarded wealth is either slave or lord, 
 And should itself be pulled, not pull the cord. 
 
 These near Vacuna's crumbling- fane I've penned, 
 Blest, save in this, in lacking thee, my friend. 
 
 ODE XXIV. p. 40. 
 
 In this Ode Horace condoles with Virgil on the death of their 
 friend Quintilius Varus of Cremona, conjectured to be the same 
 person to whom Ode XVIII. ante, is addressed. The pathos of 
 this poem is genuine and profound, all the more so from the 
 cheerless absence of that hope of an after-life of which re- 
 velation Avas so soon to give the assurance. The traces in an- 
 cient literature of a belief in a better world beyond the grave 
 are few and vague. It is impossible, however, that the nobler 
 minds of Greece and Rome could have been without strong 
 inward assurances, that their brief and troubled career on earth 
 could not be the "be all and the end all" of their existence. 
 The yearnings of the soul for immortality, and for a higher 
 and happier state of existence, must have been the same with 
 them as with ourselves; and their affections were too intense to 
 allow them to rest contentedly in the conviction, that those 
 whom they had loved and lost in death became thenceforth as 
 though they had never been. How often must the cry have 
 gone up from the Pagan breast, for which our great contempo- 
 rary poet has found a voice ! 
 
 Oh God, that it were possible 
 
 For one short hour to see 
 
 The souls we loved, that they might tell us, 
 
 What and where they be! 
 Indeed, a belief in a life beyond the present, in which the 
 
272 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 perplexities of this life shall be resolved, and its inequalities 
 adjusted, underlies the Avhole Pagan idea of Hades, with its 
 punishments and rewards. — The subject is too wide to be pur- 
 sued here. But in illustration of what the Pagan heart felt, 
 when driven in its anguish to seek comfort from its instincts, 
 where reason had no consolations to offer, we present trans- 
 lations of two of the most exquisite poems of Catullus. The 
 first is his address to his friend Calvus, on the death of his wife 
 Quinctilia. 
 
 Calvus, if those now silent in the tomb 
 
 Can feel the touch of pleasure in our tears, 
 For those we loved, that perish'd in their bloom; 
 
 And the departed friends of former years; 
 Oh, then, full surely thy Quinctilia's woe, 
 For the untimely fate that bade ye part, 
 Will fade before the bliss she feels to know , 
 How very dear she is unto thy heart!* 
 The other is his lament over his brother's grave. This 
 brother had died upon the coast of Troy; and Catullus made a 
 pilgrimage to his tomb. 
 
 O'er many a sea, o'er many a stranger land, 
 I've come, my brother, to thy lonely tomb, 
 To pay the last sad tribute to thy doom, 
 And by thy silent ashes weeping stand. 
 Vainly I call to thee. Who can command 
 An answer forth from Orcus' dreary gloom? 
 Oh, brother, brother, life lost all its bloom, 
 When thou wert snatch'd from me with pitiless hand! 
 A day will come, when we shall meet once more! 
 
 * In Ihe same spirit is the following- passage in the exquisite letter of con 
 dolence, in which Ser. Sulpicius remonstrates with Cicero on his excessive grief 
 for the death of his daughter Tullia. 'Quod si qui etiam infeiis sensus est, qui 
 illius in te amor fuil, pictasque in omnes suos, hoc eerie illate facere non vult.' 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 273 
 
 Meanwhile, these gifts, which to the honour' d grave 
 Of those they loved in life our sires of yore 
 
 With pious hand and reverential gave , 
 Accept! Gifts moisten'd with a brother's tears! 
 And now, farewell, and rest thee from all fears! 
 
 ODE XXIX. p. 48. 
 
 This Ode appears to have been written, when the expedition 
 against the Arabians was first contemplated by Augustus. Vast 
 expectations had been excited of the probable plunder of a 
 people, who were the medium of commerce with the East, and 
 had acquired a reputation for wealth which they did not possess. 
 Iccius, possessed by the prevailing lust for riches, is rallied by 
 Horace on his weakness in abandoning his literary and philo- 
 sophic pursuits for so ignoble an end. It is probable that Iccius 
 subsequently joined the disastrous expedition under ^Elius Gal- 
 lus in B. C. 24, and thereby impaired, instead of augmenting, 
 his fortune. Several years afterwards we find him acting as the 
 resident agent for Agrippa's great estates in Sicily. Time and ex- 
 perience had obviously not cured him of his yearning for wealth. 
 Though of simple personal tastes he tormented himself with this 
 insatiable passion; and Horace, whose practice lent no ordinary 
 force in this instance to his precepts, rallies him upon his in- 
 firmity in the following Epistle, the 12th of the First Book. 
 Dear Iccius, if you truly can 
 
 Enjoy the fruits Sicilian, 
 
 Which for Agrippa you collect, 
 
 'T were very madness to expect, 
 
 That greater plenty e'er should be 
 
 By kindly Jove bestow'd on thee. 
 
 A truce to your complaints; for poor 
 
 That man is not, who can ensure 
 
 Whate'eT for life is needful found. 
 
 Let your digestion be but sound, 
 
 18 
 
•>~ I NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 Your side unwrung by spasm or stitch, 
 
 Your foot unconscious of a twitch , 
 
 And could you be more truly blest, 
 
 Though of the wealth of kings possess'd? 
 
 If midst such choice of dainties rare, 
 
 You live on herbs and hermit's fare, 
 
 You would live on so, young or old, 
 
 Though fortune flooded you with gold; 
 
 Because 'tis not in power of pelf 
 
 To make you other than yourself, 
 
 Or else because you virtue deem 
 
 Above all other things supreme. 
 
 What wonder then, if, whilst his soul. 
 
 Of body heedless, swept the pole, 
 
 Democritus allow'd his beeves 
 
 Make havoc of his plants and sheaves, 
 
 When you midst such contagious itch 
 
 Of being and becoming rich, 
 
 Pursue your studies' noble bent, 
 
 On themes sublime alone intent; 
 
 What causes the wild ocean sway, 
 
 The seasons what from June to May; 
 
 If free the constellations roll, 
 
 Or moved b} r some supreme control; 
 
 What makes the moon obscure her light, 
 
 What pours her splendour on the night; 
 
 Whence concord rises from the jar 
 
 Of atoms that discordant are, 
 
 Which crazed, — both were so, if you please, 
 
 Stertinius or Empedocles? 
 
 But whether to your simple dish 
 
 You stick of onions, pulse, or fish, 
 
 Pompeius Grosphus welcome make, 
 
 And grant him freely, for my sake, 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 275 
 
 Whate'er lie asks you, sure of this, 
 'Twill not be anything amiss. 
 Friends are most cheaply purchased, when 
 We can oblige such worthy men. 
 And now, then, to apprise you, how 
 
 Stand Eoman politics just 
 
 now 
 
 Agrippa's prowess has laid low 
 
 The Spaniard; the Armenian foe 
 
 To Claudius Nero's arms has bow'd; 
 
 Phraates on his knees avow'd, 
 
 That Ctesar's rights and Caesar's sway 
 
 He will acknowledge and obey; 
 
 And from her full horn Plenty pours 
 
 Her fruits on our Italian shores. 
 The Pompeius Grosphus here mentioned, a Roman knight, and 
 a man of wealth, was a native of Sicily. Ode XVI. B. I. is ad- 
 dressed to him. 
 
 ODE XXXI. p. 51. 
 
 This Ode was composed on the occasion of the dedication by 
 Augustus, B. C. 28, of the Temple to Apollo, on Mount Palatine, 
 in which also he deposited his library. 
 
 ODE XXXIII. p. 53. 
 
 Aulus Albius Tibullus, the elegiac poet, served with Messala 
 in Aquitania. B. C. 28—27. He died young, B. C. 19, about 
 the same time as Virgil. Young and handsome as he must have 
 been, when this Ode was written, he had obviously been cut 
 out of Glycera's favour by some younger rival. Young Tele- 
 phus had served Horace a similar turn with Lydia {ante, Ode 
 13.); but the poet does not give his friend the benefit of that 
 experience, which he probably would have done, had the Ode 
 in question been founded on fact. It seems idle to attempt to 
 
 18* 
 
270 NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 connect the Glycera of this Ode with the Glycera of Ode 19 of the 
 same Book, or of Ode 19, Book III; or the Pholoe here mentioned 
 with the Pholoe of Ode 5, B. II, or 15, B. Ill, These were no 
 doubt merely convenient poetical names. The characters they 
 indicate are typical, and the poet's readers would be at no loss 
 to find frail beauties in abundance with whom to identify them. 
 The kind of consolation suggested in this Ode was not likeiy 
 to soothe the sentimental Tibullus. "The sight of lovers feedeth 
 those in love," but it is nothing to a lover in despair, that others 
 have survived a similar ordeal. "Hang up philosophy, unless 
 philosophy can make a Juliet!" 
 
 A very agreeable picture of the friendship between Horace 
 and Tibullus is presented in the following Epistle (4. B. I.) ad- 
 dressed to the latter at his country seat at Pedum, now Za- 
 garola, a small town in the neighbourhood of Prseneste, the mo- 
 dern Palestrina. 
 
 Albius, kind critic of my Satires, how 
 Shall I report of thee as busied now, 
 Down there in Pedum at that box of thine?. 
 Inditing verses, destined to outshine 
 Cassius of Parma's in his finest moods? 
 Or sauntering silent through the healthful woods, 
 In lonely reveries devising what 
 May best engage a wise and good man's thought? 
 Thou never wert, not art thou, friend, today, 
 A mere dull mass of breathing soulless clay. 
 The gods have given thee beauty, wealth, and skill 
 To use and to enjoy thy gifts at will. 
 What more or better for her darling could 
 Fond nurse desire, than that, like thee, he should 
 Be sage, — with grace whate'er he thinks express, — 
 And that to him in all his, aims success, 
 Renown, and health should bountifully fall, 
 A board well served, and bins well stock'd withal? 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FIRST OF ODES. 
 
 277 
 
 'Twixt hopes and tremors, fears and frenzies pass'd. 
 Regard each day, as though it were thy last. 
 So shall chance seasons of delight arise, 
 And overtake thee with a sweet surprise. 
 Come, visit me! Thou'lt find me plump and fair, 
 In high condition, sleek and debonair, — 
 Yea, if on me disposed thy wit to try, 
 A very hog of Epicurus' sty. 
 
 ODE XXXVII. p. 58. 
 
 This Ode appears to have been written, soon after the ti- 
 dings of the death of Cleopatra reached Rome. Modern critics 
 have discovered that she did not die by the poison of asps. AYhat 
 do they not discover? But at all events, it is clear, that the 
 Romans, with Horace at their head, held the common faith, 
 which Shakspeare has firmly established for all true Englishmen. 
 The noble close of this Ode will remind the English reader of 
 the lines, which they may perhaps have suggested, in Mr. Tenny- 
 son's Dream of Fair Women. 
 
 I died a queen. The Roman soldier found 
 
 Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, 
 A name for ever! lying robed and crown'd , 
 Worthy a Roman spouse. 
 The poem alludes both to the battle of Actium B. C. 31, and 
 the battle at Alexandria in the following year, which completed 
 the defeat of Anthony and his royal paramour. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 
 
 ODE I. p. 63. 
 
 Caius Asinius Pollio was in his youth a partizan of C. Julius 
 Caesar, and accompanied him on his invasion of Italy B. C. 45. 
 He also fought in Africa against king Juba, was engaged in 
 the battle of Pharsalia, and subsequently in a campaign in 
 Africa. In B. C. 44. he held the command of Farther Spain. He 
 joined the triumvirs, and became consul in B. C. 40. In the 
 following year he overcame the Parthini, a people of Dalmatia, 
 and then abandoned political life. He was an early patron of 
 Virgil, who speaks of his tragedies in these high terms. 
 
 Sola Sophocleo tua carmina digna cothurno. Eel. VIII. 10. 
 As an orator he was distinguished, and not less so as an historian. 
 The events of the period which he had selected were so recent, 
 and the passions of party so fierce, that Horace gracefully 
 warns him of the perils of his task, while complimenting him 
 on the picturesque force with which he is certain to execute 
 it. It is clear, from the terms in which Tacitus (Ann. IV. 34) 
 alludes to his History, that Pollio spoke fearlessly in praise of 
 Cassius, Brutus, and other enemies of Augustus. 
 
 Juno and whosoe'er &c. Astarte , the queen of heaven, inter- 
 preted by the Romans as Juno, the tutelary goddess of Carthage, 
 was worshipp'd by the Phenicians. Dishonoured and driven from 
 Carthage by the successful Romans, the goddess retaliates upon 
 them by the slaughter of Romans in Africa. "The Romans," 
 says Mr. Newman, "who fell with Curio against king Juba 
 
NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 279 
 
 B. C. 49, and afterwards at Thapsus against Caesar, are here 
 said to have been sacrificed by the African deities to the Spirit 
 of Juffurtha." 
 
 ODE VI. p. 72. 
 
 Titius Septimius, an old companion in arms of Horace, pos- 
 sessed an estate at Tarentum, where the poet visited him after 
 the celebrated journey to Brundusium (B. C. 40.) the details of 
 which form the subject of the Fifth Satire of the First Book, 
 and on other occasions. He was a poet, and imitated Pindar 
 with success. {See Horace's Epistles. B. I. 3.) When Tiberius 
 Claudius Nero, the future Emperor, was preparing- to set out 
 on his eastern campaign in B.C. 23., Horace wrote recommend- 
 ing his friend Septimius to his notice in the following terms. 
 (Epistles I. 9.) This epistle is mentioned as a judicious speci- 
 men of what an introduction should be, in a paper in the Spec- 
 tator (No. 493). 
 
 Septimius only understands, 'twould seem, 
 How high I stand in, Claudius, your esteem ; 
 For when he begs and prays me day by day, 
 Before you his good qualities to lay, 
 As one who not unworthily may find 
 A place in Nero's household, Nero's mind; 
 When he supposes, you to me extend 
 The rights and place of a familiar friend, 
 Much better than myself he sees and knows, 
 How far with you my commendation goes. 
 A thousand arguments at least I've used, 
 Why from this office I should go excused, 
 Yet fear'd the while, it might be thought I feign'd 
 Too low what influence I perchance have gain'd; 
 Dissembling it as nothing with my friends, 
 To keep it solely for my private ends. 
 
280 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 
 
 Escaping thus the heavier disgrace, 
 I 've stoop'd into the unblushing suitor's place. 
 But if you deem it worthy some applause, 
 To doff my bashfulness in friendship's cause, 
 Then in your suite, I pray, this friend enrol, 
 And trust him brave, and good, and true of soul. 
 This letter of introduction, in itself a master-piece of tact, 
 obviously had the desired effect. Septimius was admitted into 
 Claudius Nero's suite, and was serving under him in the East, 
 when Horace wrote the Epistle (B. I. 3.) to Julius Floras, Nero's 
 secretary. 
 
 ODE VII. p. 74. 
 
 Whom will Venus send to rule our revel? The allusion here is 
 to the practice, taken by the Romans from the Greeks, of ap- 
 pointing a king or dictator of the feast, who prescribed the 
 laws of the feast, which the guests were bound, under penalties, 
 to obey. Sometimes this office was assigned to the master or 
 even the mistress of the house, but commonly it fell to such 
 of the guests as made the highest throw of the dice, which 
 was called Venus, the lowest being distinguished as Canis. The 
 chairman thus selected settled the number of cups to be drunk. 
 Bumpers were the rule and no heel-taps allowed. He was en- 
 titled to call upon any one for a song, or a recitation, and 
 kept the mirth from becoming too fast and furious. Lipsius re- 
 cords fifteen of the ordinary laws upon such occasions. Ten 
 bumpers were the usual allowance, nine in honour of the Muses, 
 and one to Apollo. Every gentleman, who had a mistress was 
 to toast her, when required. There was to be no wrangling or 
 noise, — an injunction apt to be slighted, if we may judge by 
 the frequency with which Horace enforces it. A penalty was 
 frequently attached to requiring a man to name his mistress, 
 which was somewhat serious to those who, like Cassio, had "poor 
 and unhappy brains for drinking." The challenger was bound 
 
NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 281 
 
 to empty a cup to each letter of the lady's name. Sometimes, 
 when the gallant had reasons for secrecy, he merely announced 
 the number of cups which had to be drunk. From these the 
 company might divine her name, if they could. Thus six cups 
 were drunk for Naevia, seven for Justina, five for Lycas, four 
 for Lyde', three for Ida. (Martial. I, 7. and VIII, 51.) Most of these 
 practices our grandfathers revived with a truly Pagan vigour. 
 
 ODE IX. p. 77. 
 
 C. Valgius Rufus is one of the circle of valued friends, whom 
 Horace mentions (I. Sat. X. 81). He was an Epic poet and rhe- 
 torician of great eminence, of whom Tibullus, or, more probably, 
 some rhetorician of a more recent period, says: 
 Est iibi qui possit magnis se accingere rebus 
 Valgius: cuterno propter non alter Homero. IV. I. 179. 
 
 Remember, friend, that sage old man. Nestor, whose son Anti- 
 lochus, while defending his father, was slain by Memnon. The 
 slaughtered Troilus; slain by Achilles. — He was the brother of 
 Polyxena, Cassandra, &c, daughters of Priam. 
 
 ODE XL p. 81. 
 
 And bring to our revel that charming recluse. It may be thought 
 that the "devium scortum" of the original is too much softened 
 down in our version. But Horace obviously means to speak of 
 this young lady playfully and kindly. She was apparently coy 
 and hard to be got hold of, — not ready to answer to every 
 body's call; — and "shy little puss" may be substituted for "charm- 
 ing recluse" by those who adopt this view. 
 
 What boy, then, shall best in the brook's deepest pool 
 
 Our cups of the fiery Falerniau cool? 
 
 A cupbearer, who was master of the art of cooling wine to 
 the right point, must always have been in request. The mixing 
 of wine with water, which was the constant practice of the 
 Romans, was also probably reduced to an art, of which their 
 
282 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 
 
 attendants made a study. Catullus pays a glowing tribute to 
 his cupbearer for his skill in serving wine — thus. 
 Boy, that pours as none else can, 
 
 The bubbling old Falernian, 
 
 Fill our goblets — theirs and mine — 
 
 With the very mightiest wine. 
 
 Posthumia is our queen tonight. 
 
 Brimming cups are her delight. 
 
 Not the juice that courses through 
 
 The vine, and gives the grape its hue, 
 
 More native there , than is the bowl 
 
 Congenial to her festive soul ! 
 Take the water hence, my boy, 
 
 Death to wine, and death to joy! 
 
 Deep-brow'd sages, they may quaff it, 
 
 We aside shall ever daff it. 
 
 God Lyseus, none but he, 
 
 In our mantling cups shall be! 
 
 ODE XII. p. 82. 
 
 Some critics, following Bentley, suppose the Licymnia of this 
 Ode to be Maecenas's wife Licinia Terentia. A stronger illu- 
 stration could scarcely be conceived of the extreme lengths into 
 which the mania for identifying Horace's women with real per- 
 sonages has carried schola-rs. Licymnia was much more pro- 
 bably the "jmella" mentioned in the Third Epode. It was quite 
 consistent with Roman manners for a poet to write thus of his 
 friend's mistress; but not so of his wife, even although the tic 
 of marriage, as in Terentia's case, was of the loosest possible 
 kind. Maecenas was continually putting her away, and, forth- 
 with, unable to forget her fascinations, taking her back again; 
 which gave rise to the saying, recorded by Seneca, that "he 
 had been a thousand times married, and yet never had but 
 
NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 
 
 283 
 
 one wife." In the 14th Epode Horace again alludes to Mae- 
 cenas's mistress. The Roman gentleman seems to have had as 
 little scruple as a modern Parisian in blazoning his amours to 
 his friends. Nor, if we may draw the natural inference both 
 from these poems of Horace , and the following poem by Ca- 
 tullus, were his poetical friends at all averse to making them 
 the themes of their verse. 
 
 Flavins , if you'd have them shine , 
 
 These sub rosd joys of thine, 
 
 With a fashionable grace , 
 
 Above all vulgar commonplace, 
 
 You'd never let Catullus doubt 
 
 The kind of sport you are about. 
 
 If now the girl were handsome! But 
 
 I fear me she's a sorry slut — 
 
 A common thiDg, and this is why 
 
 You keep your secret all so sly. 
 
 Nay, never look so modest! Own 
 
 Your evenings are not spent alone. 
 
 You chaste as Dian! Oh, no, no! 
 
 Why keep you, then, your chamber so? 
 
 And whence this rich distill' d perfume 
 
 Of roses, filling all the room? 
 
 And, as I live, a tiny pair 
 
 Of slippers underneath the chair! 
 . All these too plainly tell the tale, 
 
 E'en though your cheeks were not so pale: 
 
 And so you'd best confess outright; 
 
 Be she a beauty, or a fright, 
 
 I care not! Only let me know it, 
 
 I'm ready to become her poet, 
 
 And deify, with verses rare, 
 
 You and your little love affair! 
 This reminds one of the famous screen scene in The School for 
 
284 NOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 
 
 Scandal, with the little French milliner, and Sir Peter Teazle's 
 "I'll swear I saw a petticoat! sly rogue, sly rogue!" 
 
 ODE XIII. p. 84. 
 
 Although the tone of this Ode is half-sportive, the incident it 
 records appears to have impressed Horace deeply. He alludes 
 to it again on two several occasions (B. II. Ode 17. and 
 B. III. Ode 4.) in the most serious terms, and a third time, in 
 B. III. Ode 8, we find him celebrating the anniversary of his 
 escape on the Kalends of March by the sacrifice of a snowwhite 
 goat to Bacchus. 
 
 ODE XVIII. p. 95. 
 
 Nor Attalus 1 imperial chair have I usurp' d &c. The poet is here 
 supposed to allude to Aristonicus, the illegitimate son of Atteilus, 
 who usurped the kingdom, which had been bequeathed by Atta- 
 lus to the Romans , but was expelled by them under Perpenna 
 B. C. 129. Laconian purples. Wools dyed with the murex, which 
 produced the celebrated purple, and was found, among other 
 places, at Tsenaron in Laconia. 
 
 ODE XIX. p. 97. 
 
 Now may I chant her honours, too , thy bride &c. The allusion 
 is to Ariadne, and the golden crown given to her by Bacchus, 
 and which, after her death, was translated to the skies, where 
 it is represented by the nine stars forming the Corona Borealis. — 
 The Halls of Pentheus shattered in their pride. Pentheus, king of 
 Thebes, having opposed the Bacchanalian orgies, was torn in 
 pieces by the Bacchanalian women. — And of Lycurgus the dis- 
 astrous story. The story of Lycurgus of Thrace is variously 
 told. He drove the Maenads across Nysa, for which he was 
 
MOTES TO BOOK SECOND OF ODES. 285 
 
 
 blinded by Jupiter (Iliad VI. 130) or, according- to Sopbocles 
 (Antigone 955), shut up in a cave. According to later legends, 
 he was driven mad by Bacchus, because of his having cut down 
 the vines, and in his frenzy killed his son Dryas, and mutilated 
 himself. The allusion in the last verse of the Ode is to the 
 descent of Bacchus into Tartarus ,. from which he brought up 
 his mother Semele and led her to Olympus, where she took her 
 place under the name of Thyone. 
 
286 NOTES TO BOOK THTHD OP ODES. 
 
 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 
 
 ODE I. p. 103. 
 
 The Pindaric Verse, introduced by Cowley, and carried by 
 Dryden to perfection, has been adopted in translating- this Ode, 
 the i4th Ode of the Fourth Book, and the Secular Hymn, as 
 the only measure in which the requisite freedom of movement 
 could be attained for grappling- with the originals. This verse, 
 whilst in some respects it tempts to amplification, is favourable 
 to closeness in others, inasmuch as the translator is not tied 
 down as in our ordinary stanza to a regularly recurring rhyme. 
 Dryden with his usual mastery of critical exposition has said 
 all that can be said of this noble form of verse. "For variety, 
 or rather where the majesty of thought requires it, the numbers 
 may be stretched to the English Heroic of five feet, and to the 
 French Alexandrine of six. But the ear must preside, and 
 direct the judgement to the choice of numbers. Without the 
 nicety of this the harmony of Pindaric verse can never be com- 
 plete; the cadency of one line must be a rule to that of the next; 
 and the sound of the former must slide gently into that which follows, 
 without leaping from one extreme into another. It must be done 
 like the shadowings of a picture , which fall by degrees into 
 a darker colour." 
 
 ODE V. p. 116. 
 
 Has any legionary, who His falchion under Crassus drew &c. The 
 defeat of the Romans under Crassus (B. C. 53) by the Parthians, 
 was one of the most signal disgraces ever sustained by the 
 Roman arms. Their standards fell into the hands of the enemy, 
 
NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 287 
 
 and many of the Roman prisoners had accepted their fate, 
 married Parthian women, and become the subjects of a Parthian 
 king. This, as the Ode intimates, was felt to be a blot upon 
 the national honour. At the time this Ode was written Augustus 
 was no doubt projecting a campaign to recover the standards, 
 and retrieve the defeat, which, despite the lapse of thirty years, 
 still rankled with peculiar bitterness in the Roman mind. This 
 object was subsequently achieved by treaty, (B. C. 23) when 
 Augustus seized the opportunity of an embassy from Phraates 
 to Rome, to treat for the surrender of his son, then a hostage 
 in the hands of Augustus, to stipulate for the delivery of the 
 captured standards and the surviving prisoners. Many of the 
 latter killed themselves, rather than return, probably either 
 from grief at the disruption of the ties they had formed, or in 
 apprehension of being dealt with by Augustus as deserters. 
 
 ODE VII. p. 122. 
 
 To Asterie. Whether this lady was the mistress or wife of 
 Gyges is not very clear. The fact, that Enipeus was in the 
 habit of serenading under her windows, rather points to the 
 former conclusion. These serenades, practised by the Greeks, 
 and by them called paraclausilhura, were a common resource of 
 the Roman gallants. A specimen of one occurs in Ode X of 
 this Book. — In this respect manners had undergone little change 
 in Italy, when, almost in the words of Horace, Shylock laid this 
 injunction upon Jessica: 
 
 Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum, 
 And the vile squeaking of the wry-neck' d fife , 
 Clamber not you up to the casement then, 
 Nor thrust your head into the public street. 
 Bithynia, the modern Anatolia, to which Gyges had gone, was 
 the emporium of the commerce of Asia Minor and all the rich 
 Greek colonies on the shores of the Black Sea. He has been 
 
288 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 
 
 compelled to put in at Oricum, (the modern Erikho) in Epirus, 
 to wait for the finer weather of spring*. Asterie, Horace seems 
 to surmise, has begun to indicate, that she is not altogether in- 
 consolable. 
 
 ODE X. p. 127. 
 
 To Ly.ee. This lady hasbeen assumed to be one of Horace's many 
 mistresses, upon what appear to be very insufficient grounds. 
 The poem is more like a jeu oV esprit, than a serious appeal — 
 a mere quiz upon the serenades of forlorn lovers. How like is 
 the picture it presents to that in Lydia Languish's confession 
 to her friend Julia! "How mortifying, to remember the dear 
 delicious shifts one used to be put to, to gain half a minute's 
 conversation with this fellow! Hon often have I stole forth, in 
 the coldest night in January, and found him in the garden, stuck like 
 a dripping statue! There would he kneel to me in the snow, 
 and cough so pathetically! he shivering with cold and I with 
 apprehension! And while the freezing blast numbed our joints, 
 how warmly would he press me to pity his flame, and glow with 
 mutual ardour! — Ah, Julia, that was something like being in 
 love !" But there was no drop of "the blood of the Absolutes" 
 in the veins of the little bard of Venusia. 
 
 ODE XIII. p. 133. 
 
 To the Bandusian Fountain. The situation of the fountain en- 
 nobled in this Ode is still disputed. Lombardi, Fea, Walcke- 
 naer, and the Dean of St. Paul's assert, that it was at Palazzo, 
 six miles from Venusia. Others maintain that it was in the Valley 
 of Licenza near the 'Sabine Farm,' but differ as to the identi- 
 fication of the particular spring. In defence of the former theory 
 it is alleged, that the village of Palazzo was anciently called 
 'Bandusium,' and that, in some documents found in a neigh- 
 
MOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 289 
 
 bouring monastery, and dated A. D. 1103. mention is made of 
 the "Fons Bandusinus apud Venusiam." Admitting the existence 
 and genuineness of the document, — a large admission, when 
 we call to mind the countless forgeries of Italian antiquaries — 
 jvhat is there to prove, that this was not a fancy name given 
 to the fountain in question in honour of Horace's Ode? It was 
 just what the monks would do, especially Venusian monks, 
 proud of their countryman Horace, and anxious that their spring 
 should become one "nobilium fontium.'''' Again, no other Ode of 
 the 3d Book was written (so far as we can judge) earlier than 
 725 A. U. C. and it is quite certain that Horace's connection 
 with Venusia and its neighbourhood was broken off by the con- 
 fiscation of his paternal farm in 712, when he returned to Rome 
 Hnops paterni et laris et fundi.'' There is no hint given of any 
 restoration of the property, or of his ever having returned to 
 live at Venusia ; on the contrary, we know that after this period 
 he lived chiefly at Rome, passing the villegiatura at his Sabine 
 farm or at Tivoli. In his occasional visits to Tarentum he pro- 
 bably passed near, or even through, Venusia, but he no where 
 speaks of it, except with reference to the incidents of his child- 
 hood and boyhood. It is clear, however, that the Fons Ban- 
 dusice was a favourite haunt of his, near the pastures where 
 his sheep and goats were feeding, and the furrows which his 
 oxen were ploughing. I regard it therefore, as almost certain 
 that the fountain was on his Sabine Farm. That this farm was 
 in the Valley of Licenza is undoubted, and the remains of a 
 Roman Villa at the head of the valley very probably mark the 
 site of that which belonged to Horace. Perhaps the most ela- 
 borate, as well as most recent account of the site is that given 
 by Mr. Dennis in a letter printed by Dean Milman in his 
 Edition of Horace. (London. Murray 1849.) I have gone care- 
 fully over the same ground , and can confirm the accuracy of 
 Mr. Dennis's general description. I differ from him, however, 
 in one or two points, especially as to the situation of the foun- 
 
 L9 
 
200 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 
 
 tain of Bandusia. This he identifies with a spring in the ragged 
 bed of a stream, dry in summer, which comes down fi'om Lucre- 
 tilis. In search of the spot, I was conducted (on the 23d of 
 September 1858) by a peasant to what he affirmed to be gene- 
 rally known by the name of the 'Fonte Blandusi' on the leffc 
 bank of the above mentioned torrent, where a little runlet of 
 water trickled out from a grassy bank overhung with a wild 
 fig-tree. Finding that this by no means corresponded with Mr. 
 Dennis's description, I expressed my doubts, when my guide at 
 once admitted that, though travellers were usually content with 
 that 'Fonte Blandusi,' yet that 'il vero fonte' was half a mile 
 further up. Accordingly, clambering up a very rugged path, 
 we came at last to the 'exquisitely Arcadian' spot described 
 by Mr. Dennis, but, alas! the fountain was dry! And this after 
 our rough scramble of two miles from the villa. Surely this 
 
 cannot be the 
 
 Tecto vicinus jugis aquae fons, 
 
 which the poet wished for, and got. 
 
 There is, however, within a few hundred yards of the villa, 
 a most abundant spring, 'rivo dare nomen idoneus,' called 'Fonte 
 della Corte,' which I suppose to be the same as that which 
 was called in Eustace's time Fonte Bello. Near it are the ruins 
 of a house called 'la Corte,' the owners of which, in the 17th 
 century probably, by building a wall some distance below where 
 the spring, clear and cold, nt nee Frigidior Thraeam nee piano?' 
 ambiat Hebrus, bursts out from the steep hill side have made 
 an artificial cascade. The ground about is now cultivated, but 
 I see no reason why the fountain in its natural state may not 
 have corresponded exactly with the description of the poet, and 
 leaped from rock to rock beneath overshadowing Holm-oaks. A 
 little further down towards Rocca Giovine are some fields called 
 'gli Oraziani' (probably a modern fancy name,) where is another 
 fountain, but too scanty to dispute the title of Fons Bandusiae 
 with the Fonte della Corte. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 291 
 
 Let me add, that my guide said, that the Fonte della 
 Corte was also called 'Fonte Blandusi.' In fact, they are quite 
 ready to give the name to whichever fountain the traveller 
 pleases!' 
 
 . For the ahove note, as for many most valuable suggestions 
 during the passage of these sheets through the press, I am in- 
 debted to my friend the Rev. W. G. Clark, Public Orator in 
 the University of Cambridge. 
 
 ODE XIV. p. 134. 
 
 To the Romans. This Ode was written apparently in anticipa- 
 tion of the return of Augustus to Borne, at the conclusion of 
 his victorious campaign in Spain B. C. 25. Livia Drusilla, his 
 wife, and Octavia his sister, the widow of Marc Antony, are 
 summoned to lead the procession to the temples- for a public 
 thanksgiving; while the poet resolves to make merry over wine, 
 which, if we are to construe literally the allusion to the Marsic 
 Avar in B. C. 91 — 98, was at least sixty four years old. This wine 
 was old even at the time of the insurrection, B. C. 73 — 72, of 
 gladiators and slaves under Spartacus, whose marauding clutch 
 Horace intimates it could scarcely have escaped. It is contended 
 that the Nesera of this Ode is the Nesera of the 15th Epode, 
 with whom Horace there remonstrates for her infidelity, and that 
 the concluding lines indicate that in the days of Plancus's con- 
 sulate, (B. C. 42) when Horace's was twenty four, he would have 
 knocked down that lady's porter, if he had given him a surly 
 answer. That he would "in his hot youth" have handled roughly 
 the concierge of that Nesera, or any other lady of her pro- 
 fession, is most probable. But the Nesera of the loth Epode 
 was by this time seventeen years older at least; and there was 
 no such dearth of younger beauties of her class as to compel 
 us to conclude, that she and she only could be the Nesera here 
 referred to. 
 
 19* 
 
292 NOTES TO BOOK THITiD OF ODES. 
 
 ODE XVI. p. 137. 
 
 Argos 1 augur. Ampliiaraus. For his story see Smith's Die. of 
 Greek and Roman Biography V. I p. 148. — ^ Twas by bribes the 
 Macedonian &c. It was a boast of Philip of Macedon, that he 
 could take any fortress into which an ass could mount laden 
 with gold. — Our bluff est navy captains. It is generally considered, 
 that a sarcasm is here directed against Menas, the freedman 
 of Pompey the Great, and the Admiral of Sextus Pompeius, 
 who alternately betrayed both parties, and was ultimately made 
 Tribunus Mititum by Augustus for his traitorous services. See 
 Epode IV., where he is mercilessly scourged. — The realms of 
 Aiyattes wedded to Mygdonia's plains. Lydia. Alyattes was the 
 father of Croesus proverbial for his wealth, and by Mygdonia's 
 plains Horace understands Phrygia. 
 
 The sentiment of the concluding part of this Ode has been 
 embodied with truly Horatian spirit in the following beautiful 
 song in the old play of The Patient Grissell by Dekker, Chettle, 
 and Haughton. 
 
 SWEET CONTENT. 
 Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? 
 
 Oh, sweet content! 
 Art thou rich, yet in thy mind perplexed? 
 
 Oh, punishment! 
 Dost thou laugh to see, how fools are vexed, 
 To add to golden numbers golden numbers? 
 
 Oh, sweet content! 
 
 Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? 
 
 Oh, sweet content! 
 Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? 
 
 Oh, punishment! 
 Then he, that patiently wants burden bears, 
 No burden bears, but is a king, a king! 
 
 Oh, sweet content! 
 
NOTES TO BOOK THIKD OF ODES. 293 
 
 ODE XVII. p. 138. 
 
 To JElius Lamia. This is the same Lucius JElius Lamia, to 
 whom the Ode I. 26 is addressed. This family claimed for their 
 ancestor Lamus, king of the Lsestrygones , who as said by 
 tradition to have founded Forinise. The ode reads like a little 
 friendly note, sent to Lamia by the poet on the eve of some 
 family holiday. 
 
 ODE XXI. p. 144. 
 
 To a jar of mine. This joyous panegyric of the virtues of wine 
 will hold its own against anything 1 which has been written on 
 the subject. Horace's views were akin to those of The Preach- 
 er— "Give him strong drink who is ready to perish, and wine 
 unto those that be of heavy heart. Let him drink and forget his 
 poverty, and remember his poverty no more." Burns in his own 
 vigorous way echos unconsciously the very words of Horace ! 
 Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin', 
 Though life's a gift no worth receiving 
 When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and griev r in'; 
 
 But, oiled by thee, 
 The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin' 
 Wi' rattlin' glee. 
 
 Thou clears the head o 1 doited lair, 
 Thou cheers the heart o' drooping care, 
 Thou strings the nerves o' labour sair 
 
 At 's weary toil; 
 Thou even brightens dark despair 
 
 AVi 1 gloomy smile. 
 
 ODE XXVII. p. 154. 
 
 To Galatea. The lady, to whom this beautiful Ode is addressed 
 appears to have been some Roman matron of Horace's acquain- 
 tance, about to visit Greece. The allusions to the evil omens 
 
294 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 
 
 remind us, with what tenacity superstition clings to the human 
 mind; when we see that neither revelation nor science have 
 yet extinguished the belief in many of those to which Horace 
 refers. The transition to the story of Europa is abrupt accord- 
 ing to our notions; but a reference to this triumphant beauty's 
 troubles and glory was an implicit compliment to the beauty 
 and attractions of Galatea. 
 
 Place me, ye gods, in righteous wrath, 
 Naked upon the lions' 1 path &c. p. 156. 
 This appeal seems to have been a kind of "common form" 
 in Roman poetry. One of the most noticeable instances in which 
 it occurs is in what Mr. Tennyson calls "that Latin song I 
 learned at school," in which Love is made to "Sneeze out a full 
 God-bless you right and left," — Catullus's 
 
 ACME AND SEPTIMIUS. 
 
 Septimius , holding on his breast 
 Acme, thus the maid addressed: — 
 "Acme, if I love thee not 
 • Dearly as my dearest thought, 
 Nor will love thee, love thee still 
 "With a love years shall not chill, 
 May I, sweet, on Lybia's sand, 
 Or in India's burning land , 
 In my solitary path 
 Meet the tawny lion's wrath!'''' 
 
 As thus he spoke, Love, who was near, 
 Listening with attentive ear, 
 Heard him his devotion plight, 
 And sneezed propitious on the right. 
 
 Then Acme, with a gentle grace 
 Bending back her rosy face, 
 Kissed the eyes of that sweet boy, 
 That swam beneath her lips with joy. 
 

 XOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 295 
 
 "Septimius, mv life," she cries, 
 "Thine is the only heart I prize; 
 And this, and this, my witness he, 
 That thou art all in all to me! 
 For fondly as thy heart may heat, 
 In mine there glows a fiercer heat, 
 And mightier is the flame that reigns 
 Through all your own fond Acme's veins." 
 
 As .thus she spoke , Love , who was near , 
 Listening with attentive ear, 
 And heard her thus her passion plight, 
 Sneezed propitious on the right. 
 
 With such fair omens blest , the twain 
 Love , and are fondly loved again. 
 Septimius prizes Acme's smiles 
 Above the East, or Britain's Isles; 
 By faithful Acme is her lord 
 "With all her early love adored. 
 Were ever pair so blest as these 
 By "Venus' brightest auspices! 
 
 ODE XXIX. p. 159. 
 
 This Ode will probably always be read in English in Dryden's 
 noble version, which, as a whole, is certainly finer than the 
 original. The following passage, of which a faint suggestion 
 only is to be found in Horace , is highly characteristic of the 
 genius of Dryden, and his peculiar mastery of the great rhyth- 
 mical resources of our language. 
 
 Happy the man, and happy he alone, 
 He, who can call today his own; 
 He, who, secure within, can say, 
 Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. 
 Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, 
 The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. 
 
296 NOTES TO BOOK THIRD OF ODES. 
 
 Not heaven itself upon the past has power; 
 But what has been, has been, and I have had niy hour. 
 Fortune, that with malicious joy- 
 Does man her slave oppress, 
 Proud of her office to destroy, 
 Is seldom pleased to bless: 
 Still various, and unconstant still, 
 But with an inclination to be ill, 
 
 Promotes , degrades , delights in strife , 
 And makes a lottery of life. 
 I can enjoy her while she's kind; 
 But when she dances in the wind, 
 
 And shakes her wings, and will not stay, 
 I puff the prostitute away; 
 The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd; 
 Content with poverty my soul I arm; 
 And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. 
 Nor always from afar survey &c. From Maecenas's palace on 
 the Esquiline hill, he could command a view of Tibur, the 
 modern Tivoli, iEsula, (the site of which is unknown, but which 
 probably lay between Prseneste and Tibur,) and Tusculum, built 
 on a hill above the modern Frascati, and said to have been 
 founded by Telegonus, son of Circe by Ulysses, whom he slew 
 in ignorance of the fact of his paternity. The "Circean walls 
 of Tusculum" are again referred to in the First Epode. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 297 
 
 flOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 
 
 ODE I. p. 167. 
 
 The pains of Love. This Ode has been for the most part so 
 admirably rendered by Ben Jonson, that only such alterations 
 have been made upon his version as were necessary to bring 
 it into harmony with the modern diction of the other trans- 
 lations. 
 
 ODE HI. p. 172, 
 
 Julius Scaliger said of this Ode, and the Amoebean Ode, 
 (Book III. 9) that he would rather have written them than be 
 king of Arragon. 
 
 The following version by Bishop Atterbury holds a high place 
 among Horatian translations. 
 
 He on whose natal hour the queen 
 
 Of verse hath smiled, shall never grace 
 The Isthmian gauntlet, or be seen 
 
 First in the famed Olympian race. 
 He shall not, after toils of war, 
 
 And taming haughty monarchs' pride, 
 With laureird brows conspicuous far 
 
 To Jove's Tarpeian temple ride. 
 But him the streams which warbling flow 
 
 Rich Tibur's fertile vales along, 
 And shady groves, his haunts, shall know 
 
 The master of the ^Eolian song. 
 The sons of Eome, majestic Eome , 
 
 Have placed me in the poets' quire, 
 And envy now, or dead, or dumb, 
 Forbears to blame what they admire. 
 
298 NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 
 
 Goddess of the sweet-sounding lute, 
 
 Which thy harmonious touch obeys, 
 Who mak'st the finny race , though mute 
 
 The cygnet's dying accent raise, 
 Thy gift it is, that all with ease 
 
 Me prince of Roman lyrists own; 
 That, while I live, my numbers please, 
 
 If pleasing, is thy gift alone. 
 
 ODE IV. p. 173. 
 
 The Praises of Drusus. Drusus was the son of Tiberius Clau- 
 dius Nero and his wife Livia, and was born three months after 
 Livia, who had been divorced by Nero, had been married to 
 Augustus. His elder brother Tiberius, by the same father, was 
 adopted by Augustus, but Drusus was not, as though with the 
 view of giving the lie to the current scandal, that an intimacy 
 had subsisted between Livia and Augustus before her divorce 
 from Claudius Nero. Of the two Drusus was, however, most 
 in favour with Augustus. He possessed, according to Velleius 
 Paterculus (II. 97), every natural endowment, carried by culture 
 to perfection. He was only twenty three years old, when he 
 achieved the great victory celebrated in this Ode. The Yin- 
 delici, who occupied that part of modern Bavaria which lies 
 between the Tyrol and the Lech and its tributaries, had formed 
 an alliance with the Rhteti, a race of wild mountaineers, who 
 occupied the Tyrol, the Vorarlberg and the Grisons.- They were 
 in the habit of making descents upon the plains of northern 
 Italy, for purposes of plunder and destruction. Drusus forced 
 his way through the passes of the Tyrolese Alps and defeated 
 them; while this brother Tiberius, crossing the Lake of Constance, 
 made a diversion, which enabled Drusus to complete their over- 
 throw. All the young men of the enemy, who were not slain, 
 were carried prisoners to Rome, only such of the population 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 299 
 
 being left behind as were necessary for the tillage of the soil. 
 The victory was complete and conclusive. Augustus is said to 
 have prescribed the theme of this Ode to the poet, who exe- 
 cuted his task with consummate skill. Through both their parents, 
 Tiberius and Drusus were descended from both the consuls 
 Livius and Nero, who defeated Hasdrubal at the Metaurus, B. C. 
 207, — a circumstance which the poet has turned to excellent 
 advantage. 
 
 ODE V. p. 177. 
 
 The husband in the child we trace. This evidence of the chastity 
 of the mother is greatly insisted on in Greek and Roman poetry. 
 The following amusing anecdote is told by Macrobius. A pro- 
 vincial, who had gone to Rome on business, drew crowds after 
 him by his great resemblance to Augustus. The emperor, hear- 
 ing of this, had him sent for, and struck by the likeness, asked 
 him, "Young man, was your mother ever in Rome?" "Never," 
 replied the provincial, "but my father often was." 
 
 ODE XII. p. 190. 
 
 Now buildeth her nest &c. Procne, daughter of Pandion son 
 of Cecrops, and wife of Tereus, king of Thrace, killed her son 
 Itys, and served his heart up to his father, in revenge for the 
 brutal lust and cruelty of Tereus, who had ravished her sister 
 Philomela and then cut out her tongue. 'The sad bird 1 is Procne, 
 who was transformed into a swallow. 
 
 And thirst, oh my Virgil &c. This invitation of the poet Virgil 
 to dinner, was written probably soon after Horace's return from 
 Greece to Rome, and when Virgil, already backed by powerful 
 friends, was much better off than himself. Choice perfumes 
 were as indispensable to a Roman's enjoyment of a feast as 
 choice wines. They were costly, and Horace requires Virgil 
 to contribute this part of the essentials of their carouse. Ca- 
 
300 NOTES TO ROOK FOURTH OF ODES. 
 
 tullus, in mucli the same strain, invites his friend Fabullus to 
 dinner, promising to find the perfume, on condition that Fabullus 
 brings with him all the other requisites, — thus : 
 You dine with me, dear Argentine, 
 
 On Friday next, at half-past two; 
 And I can promise that you'll dine 
 
 As well as man need wish to do; 
 If you bring with you, when you come, 
 
 A dinner of the very best, 
 And lots of wine, and mirth, and some 
 
 Fair girl , to give the whole a zest. 
 'Tis if you bring these — mark me now! 
 
 That you're to have the best of dinners, 
 For your Catullus' purse, I vow, 
 
 Has nothing in't but long-legged spinners. 
 But if you don't, you'll have to fast 
 
 On simple welcome and thin air; 
 And, as a sauce to our repast, 
 
 I'll treat you to a perfume rare; — 
 A perfume so divine, 'tis odds, 
 
 When you have smelt its fragrance , whether 
 You won't devoutly pray the gods, 
 
 To make you straight all nose together. 
 
 ODE XIII. p. 192. 
 
 To Lyce. This Ode and the 25th Ode of the First Book pre- 
 sent a very ugly aspect of Horace's character. Lyce, like the 
 Lydia of that Ode , was obviously an old mistress , and the 
 taunts levelled at her are heartless in the extreme. No better 
 proof could be afforded, if, indeed, any were wanted, of the 
 purely sensuous feeling, which had governed all Horace's 
 amours, and of his inability to comprehend that worship of the 
 heart, which consecrates through all the ravages of time, or 
 even the degradation of vice a woman who has once been loved. 
 
NOTES TO BOOK FOURTH OF ODES. 301 
 
 Only a pagan, it is often said, could feel or write, as Horace 
 does in this Ode. One would fain think so, were the proofs 
 to the contrary not too numerous. Men will certainly not dare 
 now-a-days openly to avow such sentiments; that is something 
 gained. But not very long since we could have almost matched 
 Horace even here. Thus a great wit and fine gentleman of the 
 last century, Sir Charles Hanbury "Williams, in his published 
 poems treats a former mistress, the celebrated Mrs. Margaret 
 Woffington, (who, however, did not like Lyce outlive her fas- 
 cinations,) with a rude insolence which makes one wish she had 
 played Sir Harry Wildair off the stage as well as upon it, and 
 caned him roundly. While sighing at her feet he writes of her 
 thus — (Works. London 1822. Vol. II. p. 4.) 
 'Tis not her form alone I prize , 
 Which every fool, that has his eyes, 
 
 As well as I can see; 
 To say she's fair is but to say, 
 WTien the sun shines at noon 'tis day, 
 
 Which none need learn of me. 
 But I'm in love with Peggy's mind, 
 Where every virtue is combined, 
 That can adorn the fair. 
 She discards him, no doubt with good reason, and then ad- 
 dressing to her by name an adaptation of Horace's Ode to 
 Barine (Vol. H. 8.), he assails his former paragon in this un- 
 manly strain: 
 
 By tricks and cheats and lies you live, 
 By breach of word and honour thrive , 
 Like my good Lord of Bath. 
 Those who are curious to see with what coarse raillery a 
 gentleman of the last century could insult a brilliant beauty, 
 who had condescended to grant him her favours, may consult 
 the remainder of the poem. 
 
302 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 
 
 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 
 
 Epode I. p. 201. 
 
 The occasion of this Ode is uncertain. It has heen custo- 
 mary to refer it to the campaign which ended in the battle 
 of Actium, B. C. 31. But this seems unlikely, as Maecenas 
 was not there. Mr. Thomas Dyer, whose view is adopted by 
 Mr. J. W. Newman, with greater probability refers it to the Sici- 
 lian war, in which Maecenas took part. B. C. 36. The Libur- 
 nians referred to in the first line were vessels of a light 
 draught, convenient for an officer in command, as being more 
 easily moved from point to point. This epode was probably 
 written not long after Horace had been presented with the 
 Sabine villa, which he may be presumed to contrast in the con- 
 cluding lines with the sumptuous villas in the more fashionable 
 district of Tusculum. 
 
 Epode V. p. 208. 
 
 This remarkable poem throws vivid light upon the practices 
 and belief of the Romans in the matter of witchcraft; nearly 
 all of which survived in modern Europe till a comparatively 
 recent date. Canidia, anxious to reclaim the vagrant affections 
 of her lover Varus, murders a young boy by a frightful pro- 
 cess of slow torture, in order to concoct from his liver and spleen 
 a philtre of irresistible power. The place, the time, the ac- 
 tors are brought before us with great dramatic force. Cani- 
 
NOTES TO THE El'ODES. 303 
 
 dia's burst of wonder and rage, on finding- that the spells she 
 deemed all-powerful have been neutralised by some sorceress 
 of skill superior so her own, gives great reality to the scene; 
 and the curses of the dying boy, launched with tragic vigour, 
 and closing with a touch of beautiful pathos, make one regret, 
 that we have no more pieces by Horace in a similar vein. The 
 speculations as to who and what Canidia was, in which 
 scholars have indulged, point to no satisfactory conclusion. That 
 she was a real personage , and most obnoxious to the poet is 
 certain from the peculiar venom with which he denounces her 
 not only here, but in the Satire I. 8., as well as from the sar- 
 castic Recantation and Reply, which form the 17 th Epode. 
 
 Young children supplied a favourite condiment to the witches 
 of modern Europe, as well as to those of Horace's days. From 
 them, according to Baptista Porta, was procured an ointment, 
 which, rubbed into the skin, enabled the "filthy hags", the Cani- 
 dias and Sag anas of a more recent period, to mount in imagi- 
 nation into the air, and to enjoy amorous dalliance with their 
 paramours. Thus in Scot's Discoverie of Witchcraft we find the 
 following recipe for this precious embrocation cited from that 
 great Neapolitan authority. ,,R. the fat of young children, and 
 seethe it with water in a brazen vessell, reserving the thickest of 
 that which remaineth boiled in the bottom, which they lay up 
 and keep, until occasion serveth to use it. They put hereunto 
 Eleoselinum, Aconitum, frondes popirieas, and soot.' 1 '' "They stamp 
 all these together, and then they rub all parts of their bodies 
 exceedingly, till they look red and be very hot, so as the pores 
 may be opened, and their flesh soluble and loose." "By this 
 means in a moonlight night they seem to be carried in the air, 
 to feasting, singing, dancing, kissing, culling, and other acts of 
 venery, with such youths as they love and desire most." Regi- 
 nald Scot's Discoverie of Witchcraft p. 184. ed. 1584. The sacrifice 
 of infancv has always been thought welcome to the devil. Shak- 
 speare's witches make the hell broth of their cauldron "thick 
 
304 
 
 NOTES TO THE EI'ODES. 
 
 and slab" by adding 1 the 
 
 Finger of birth strangled babe 
 Ditch-delivered by a drab; 
 And ingredients of a similar kind figure in most of the plays 
 of the Elizabethan period, where witches and their orgies are 
 introduced. See, for example, The Witch by Thomas Middleton, 
 in Mr. Dyce's edition of that dramatist. Vol. III. p. 259 et seq. — ■ 
 In Jonson's Masque of Queens, one of the Hags thus reports 
 her achievements. (Gifford's Ed. Vol. VII. p. 130.) 
 I had a dagger: what did I with that? 
 Kill'd an infant to have his fat. 
 Jonson, as might be expected, has borrowed largely from 
 Horace in this Masque , in which he has skilfully brought to- 
 gether all the floating superstitious, ancient and modern, as 
 to witches and their arts. 
 
 Epode VI. p. 214. 
 
 Like him, whose joys Lycambes dasWd &c. The poets who 
 thus made Furies of their Muses were Archilochus and Hippo- 
 nax. Lycambes had promised his daughter Neobule to Archi- 
 lochus, and afterwards broke his promise. The. ferocity of the 
 poet's satire drove him to commit suicide. So, too, Bupalus a 
 sculptor of Chios, who had caricatured Hipponax, adopted the 
 same effectual means of escaping the sting of the satirist's 
 verses. 
 
 Epode IX. p. 216, 
 
 This Ode appears to have been written on the arrival in 
 Rome of tidings of the battle of Actium. The "self-styled Nep- 
 tunius" was Sextus Pompeius, who was defeated in B. C. 36. 
 by Agrippa off Mylse, aud again off Naulochus, in the Sicilian 
 Sea. He had taken into his service, all the slaves who fled to 
 him. The "woman's slave" of the third verse is of course Marc 
 Antony. 
 
NOTES TO THE EPODES. 305 
 
 Epode XVI. p. 225. 
 
 To the Roman People. This poem was probably written, shortly 
 before the peace of Brundusium B. C. 40. was concluded be- 
 tween Antony and Octavius, and when the dangers threatening- 
 Rome from civil dissensions were of the most alarming kind. 
 
 The story of the Phocoeans here referred to is told by 
 Herodotus (Clio 165). Their city having been attacked by Har- 
 pagus, one of the generals of Cyrus, B. C. 534., "the Pho- 
 caeans launched their fifty-oared galleys, and, having put their 
 wives, children, aud goods on board, together with the images 
 from their temples, and other offerings, except works of brass 
 or stone, or pictures, set sail for Chios; 1 ' and the Persians 
 took possession of Phocsea, abandoned by all its inhabitants. 
 They subsequently returned and put to the sword the Persian 
 garrison which had been left by Harpagus in the city. "After- 
 wards, when this was accomplished, they pronounced terrible 
 imprecations on any who should desert the fleet ; besides this, 
 they sunk a mass of red-hot iron, and swore 'that they would 
 never return to Phocsea, till this burning mass should appear 
 again.' " 
 
 The idea of the Happy Isles was a familiar one with the Greek 
 poets. — They became in time confounded with the Elysian 
 fields, in which the spirits of the departed good and great en- 
 joyed perpetual lest. In this character Ulysses mentions them 
 in Mr. Tennyson's noble monologue: 
 
 It may be that the gulfs shall wash us down, 
 It may be we shall reach the Happy Isles, 
 And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
 
 These islands were supposed to lie in the far West, and were 
 probably the poetical amplification of some voyagers' account 
 of the Canaries or of Madeira. There has always been a region 
 beyond the boundaries of civilization to which the poet's fancy 
 has turned for ideal happiness and peace. The difference 
 
 20 
 
306 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 
 
 between ancient and modern is, that material comforts, as 
 in this Epode, enter largely into the romantic dream of the 
 former, while independence, beauty, and grandeur are the chief 
 elements in the picture of the latter. 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, 
 Breadth of Tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of paradise. 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, 
 Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from 
 
 the crag. 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree, 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. 
 
 Epode XVII. p. 228. 
 
 Reverse thy whirling wheel amain. A wheel appears to have 
 been turned by the witches and sorcerers of Greece and Rome 
 in their incantations, under the belief, that its revolutions drew 
 after them the soul of the person intended to be spellbound. 
 It is to a wheel of this kind, that the girl in Theocritus, Idyll II., 
 throughout her conjuration of the wandering affections of her 
 lover, keeps up an appeal. 
 
 t'vyl, sins xv rrjvov i[idv tcotI dco[icc xbv ccvdgcc. 
 
 Turn, wheel, turn my beloved from his paramour back to my 
 
 dwelling! 
 
 The lynx, torquilla, the wryneck, which was used by witches 
 in compounding their love-potions, was fastened upon the wheel; 
 and so in time the wheel itself came to be called, as in the 
 above passage, lynx. 
 
 The days and nights, they wax and wane, 
 
 But bring me no release from pain; &c. p. 229. 
 
 So the witch in Macbeth threatens the Master of the Tiger. 
 
NOTES TO THE EPODES. 307 
 
 I will drain him dry as hay. 
 
 Sleep shall neither night nor day 
 
 Hang upon his pent -house lid; 
 
 He shall live a man forbid: 
 
 Weary seven nights, nine times nine, 
 
 Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine. 
 
 The tongue, 
 That slandered Helena the fair. p. 230. 
 
 Stesichorus who was blinded by the Dioscuri, for lampooning 
 their sister, wrote a recantation, whereupon they restored his 
 sight. 
 
 Think ye, that I who can at will 
 Move waxen images — p. 232. 
 
 That is , give life and feeling to images of wax made to 
 represent any one whom she wished to enchant. Thus the girl 
 in the Second Idyll of Theocritus already referred to, (v. 28) 
 cog tovtov xov %r\qbv iyco gvv Sccl[iovl tcctho, 
 cog xccuoid'' V7t EQCorog 6 Mvvdiog uvtitux. zielcpig. 
 As this image of wax I melt here by aidance demonic, 
 Myndian Delphis shall so melt with love's passion anon. 
 Virgil uses the same image in the Eighth Eclogue (1. 80.) 
 Limus id hie durescit, et hcec ut cera liquescit , 
 [/no eodemque igni, sic nostro Daphnis amove. 
 As hardens with the selfsame fire this clay, 
 That melts the while this mould of wax away, 
 So, so may Daphnis melt with love for me, 
 So with hard heart all other wooers see! 
 And Hypsipyle says of Medea (Ovid. Heroid. VI. 91): — 
 Devovet absentes simulacraque cerea figit , 
 Et miserum tenues in jecur urget acus. 
 The absent she binds with her spells," and figures of wax she 
 
 devises, 
 And in their agonised spleen fine-pointed needles she thrusts. 
 
 20* 
 
308 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 
 
 In these passages we are again reminded of the practices 
 of modern sorcery. The familiar instance of Eleanor, Duchess of 
 Gloster, who was accused along with Hume, Margery Jourdain, 
 and others, of attempting by means of an image of this kind 
 to compass the death of Henry VI, will occur to every one. 
 The older dramatists are full of allusions to the practice. Thus, 
 in Middleton's Witch. 
 
 Hecate. What death is't you desire for Almachildes? 
 Duchess. A sudden and a subtle. 
 Hecate. Then I've fitted you. 
 His picture made in wax, and gently molten 
 By a blue fire kindled with dead men's eyes , 
 Will waste him by degrees. 
 
 These images are also referred to by Horace in the Eighth 
 Satire of the First Book, of which, as completing the series of 
 poems, in which Canidia is mentioned, a translation is subjoined. 
 Erewhile I was a figtree stock, 
 
 A senseless good-for-nothing block, 
 
 When, sorely puzzled which to shape, 
 
 A common joint-stool or Priape, 
 
 The carpenter his fiat pass'd, 
 
 Deciding for the god at last. 
 
 So god I am, to fowl and thief 
 
 A source of dread beyond belief. 
 
 Thieves at my right hand, and the stake 
 
 Which from my groin flames menace , . quake , 
 
 Whilst the reeds waving from my crown 
 
 Scare the intrusive birds of town 
 
 From these new gardens quite away, 
 
 Where, at no very distant day, 
 
 From vilest cribs were corpses brought 
 
 In miserable shells to rot. 
 
 For 'twas the common burial-ground 
 
 Of all the poor for miles around; 
 
NOTES TO THE EPODES. 309 
 
 Buffoon Pantolabus lay here, 
 With spend- thrift Nbrnentanus near; 
 It stretch'd a thousand feet in span, 
 A hundred back in depth it ran, — 
 A pillar mark'd its hounds, and there 
 Might no man claim the soil as heir. 
 
 Now it is possible to dwell 
 On Esquiline, and yet be well , 
 To saunter there and take your ease 
 On trim and sunny terraces, 
 And this where late the ground was white, 
 With dead men's bones, disgusting sight ! 
 But not the thieves and beasts of prey, 
 Who prowl about the spot alway, 
 When darkness falls, have caused to me 
 Such trouble and anxiety, 
 As those vile hags, who vex the souls 
 Of men by spells, and poison-bowls. 
 Do -what I will, they haunt the place, 
 And ever, when her buxom face 
 The wandering moon unveils, these crones. 
 Come here to gather herbs and bones. 
 Here have I seen, with streaming hair, 
 Canidia stalk, her feet all bare, 
 Her inky cloak tuck'd up, and howl 
 With Sagana, that beldam foul. 
 The deadly pallor of their face 
 With fear and horror fill'd the place. 
 Up with their nails the earth they threw, 
 Then limb-meal tore a coal-black ewe, 
 And pour'd its blood into the hole, 
 So to evoke the shade and soul 
 Of dead men, and from these to wring 
 Responses to their questioning. 
 
310 NOTES TO THE EPODES. 
 
 Two effigies they had, — of wool 
 
 Was one, and one of wax: to rule 
 
 The other and with pangs subdue, 
 
 The woollen larger of the two; 
 
 The waxen cower'd, like one that stands 
 
 Beseeching in the hangman's hands. 
 
 On Hecate one, Tisiphone 
 
 The other calls; and you might see 
 
 Serpents and hell-hounds thread the dark, 
 
 Whilst, these vile orgies not to mark, 
 
 The moon, all bloody-red of hue, 
 
 Behind the massive tombs withdrew. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Why should I more? Why tell, how each 
 Pale ghost with wild and woful screech 
 To gibbering Sagana answer makes; 
 How grizzled wolves and mottled snakes 
 Slunk to their holes; and how the fire, 
 Fed by the wax, flamed high and higher; 
 Or what my vengeance for the woe , 
 I had been doom'd to undergo 
 By these two Furies, with their shrieks, 
 Their spells and other ghastly freaks? 
 
 * * * 
 
 Back to the city scamper'd they; 
 Canidia's teeth dropp'd*by the way, 
 And Sagana's high wig; and you 
 With laughter long and loud might view 
 Their herbs, and charmed adders, wound 
 In mystic coils, bestrew the ground. 
 
NOTE TO THE SECULAR HYMN. 311 
 
 NOTE TO THE SECULAR HYMN. 
 
 For a full account of the Secular Games , see the article 
 k Ludi Seculares' in Smith's Dictionary of Antiquities. 
 
 Augustus, resolved to mark conspicuously the close of the first 
 ten years for which the imperial power had been placed in his 
 hands, and the distinguished success which had attended his 
 administration and his arms, appointed a great Festival, based 
 upon the model of the ancient Ludi Tarentini or Taurii. These 
 had been held in seasons of public calamity or peril, to pro- 
 pitiate the infernal deities Dis and Proserpina, who were, how- 
 ever, dropped out of view on the present occasion, and the 
 festival held in honour of Apollo, (the patron god of Augustus,) 
 and Diana. It was desirable to have this festival regarded, not 
 as something new and special, but merely as the observance of 
 a periodic solemnity. The Quindecemvirs, therefore, were direct- 
 ed to consult the Sibylline Books , and they reported, that the 
 cyclical period for its celebration had now revolved (B. C. 17.) 
 Ateius Capito, the celebrated jurist, was appointed to arrange 
 the ceremonies, and Horace was requested to prepare an Ode. 
 The festival was celebrated with great splendour. It occupied 
 three days and nights. The Ode was sung at the second hour 
 of the night at the most solemn part of the festival, when the 
 emperor, attended by the Fifteen Men, who presided over reli- 
 gious affairs, was offering sacrifice in person on the banks of 
 the Tiber. The chorus consisted of twenty seven boys and the 
 same number of girls of noble birth, whose parents were yet 
 living (patrimi and matrimx). See Ode. IV. 6. supra, which is 
 
312 NOTE TO THE SECULAR HYMN. 
 
 generally regarded as one of the Hymns sung at an earlier 
 part of the Festival. 
 
 Diana is celebrated under the three names of Ilithyia, {The 
 Bringer to Light) the Greek name for Here and Artemis, — 
 Lucina, also applied indiscriminately to Juno and Diana, and 
 bearing the same signification, — and Genitalis, {The Begetter,) 
 supposed to be a version of the Greek FsvExvllLg , which was 
 applied to Aphrodite as well as to Artemis. — 
 
 <tft 
 
SCrattsIateb bg Clreotwre PfefttL 
 
 CORREGGIO: 
 
 A TEAGEDY. BY OEHLENSCHL AE GEE. 
 
 KING RENE'S DAUGHTER: 
 
 A DANISH LYEICAL DEAMA. BY HENEIK HEBTZ. 
 
 28. 6d. 
 
 ALADDIN; 
 
 <§r, %\t moxtbixtnl % amp. 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM IN TWO PARTS. BY ADAM OEHLENSCHLAEGER. 
 
 gs. 
 
 London: JOHN W. PARKEE AND SON, West Strand. 
 
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