Jove rules in heaven, his thunder shows;Henceforth Augustus earth shall ownHer present god, now Briton foesAnd Persians bow before his throne.Has Crassus' soldier ta'en to wifeA base barbarian, and grown grey(Woe, for a nation's tainted life!)Earning his foemen-kinsmen's pay,His king, forsooth, a Mede, his sireA Marsian? can he name forget,Gown, sacred shield, undying fire,And Jove and Rome are standing yet?'Twas this that Regulus foresaw,What time he spurn'd the foul disgraceOf peace, whose precedent would drawDestruction on an unborn race,Should aught but death the prisoner's chainUnrivet. "I have seen," he said,"Rome's eagle in a Punic fane,And armour, ne'er a blood-drop shed,Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seenFree sons of Rome with arms fast tied;The fields we spoil'd with corn are green,And Carthage opes her portals wide.The warrior, sure, redeem'd by gold,Will fight the bolder! Aye, you heapOn baseness loss. The hues of oldRevisit not the wool we steep;And genuine worth, expell'd by fear,Returns not to the worthless slave.Break but her meshes, will the deerAssail you? then will he be braveWho once to faithless foes has knelt;Yes, Carthage yet his spear will fly,Who with bound arms the cord has felt,The coward, and has fear'd to die.He knows not, he, how life is won;Thinks war, like peace, a thing of trade!Great art thou, Carthage! mate the sun,While Italy in dust is laid!"His wife's pure kiss he waved aside,And prattling boys, as one disgraced,They tell us, and with manly prideStern on the ground his visage placed.With counsel thus ne'er else areadHe nerved the fathers' weak intent,And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, spedInto illustrious banishment.Well witting what the torturer's artDesign'd him, with like unconcernThe press of kin he push'd apartAnd crowds encumbering his return,As though, some tedious business o'erOf clients' court, his journey layTowards Venafrum's grassy floor,Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.
Your fathers' guilt you still must pay,Till, Roman, you restore each shrine,Each temple, mouldering in decay,And smoke-grimed statue, scarce divine.Revering Heaven, you rule below;Be that your base, your coping still;'Tis Heaven neglected bids o'erflowThe measure of Italian ill.Now Pacorus and Monaeses twiceHave given our unblest arms the foil;Their necklaces, of mean device,Smiling they deck with Roman spoil.Our city, torn by faction's throes,Dacian and Ethiop well-nigh razed,These with their dreadful navy, thoseFor archer-prowess rather praised.An evil age erewhile debasedThe marriage-bed, the race, the home;Thence rose the flood whose waters wasteThe nation and the name of Rome.Not such their birth, who stain'd for usThe sea with Punic carnage red,Smote Pyrrhus, smote Antiochus,And Hannibal, the Roman's dread.Theirs was a hardy soldier-brood,Inured all day the land to tillWith Sabine spade, then shoulder woodHewn at a stern old mother's will,When sunset lengthen'd from each heightThe shadows, and unyoked the steer,Restoring in its westward flightThe hour to toilworn travail dear.What has not cankering Time made worse?Viler than grandsires, sires begetOurselves, yet baser, soon to curseThe world with offspring baser yet.
Why weep for him whom sweet Favonian airsWill waft next spring, Asteria, back to you,Rich with Bithynia's wares,A lover fond and true,Your Gyges? He, detain'd by stormy stressAt Oricum, about the Goat-star's rise,Cold, wakeful, comfortless,The long night weeping lies.Meantime his lovesick hostess' messengerTalks of the flames that waste poor Chloe's heart(Flames lit for you, not her!)With a besieger's art;Shows how a treacherous woman's lying breathOnce on a time on trustful Proetus wonTo doom to early deathToo chaste Bellerophon;Warns him of Peleus' peril, all but slainFor virtuous scorn of fair Hippolyta,And tells again each taleThat e'er led heart astray.In vain; for deafer than Icarian seasHe hears, untainted yet. But, lady fair,What if Enipeus pleaseYour listless eye? beware!Though true it be that none with surer seatO'er Mars's grassy turf is seen to ride,Nor any swims so fleetAdown the Tuscan tide,Yet keep each evening door and window barr'd;Look not abroad when music strikes up shrill,And though he call you hard,Remain obdurate still.
The first of March! a man unwed!What can these flowers, this censer meanOr what these embers, glowing redOn sods of green?You ask, in either language skill'd!A feast I vow'd to Bacchus free,A white he-goat, when all but kill'dBy falling tree.So, when that holyday comes round,It sees me still the rosin clearFrom this my wine-jar, first embrown'dIn Tullus' year.Come, crush one hundred cups for lifePreserved, Maecenas; keep till dayThe candles lit; let noise and strifeBe far away.Lay down that load of state-concern;The Dacian hosts are all o'erthrown;The Mede, that sought our overturn,Now seeks his own;A servant now, our ancient foe,The Spaniard, wears at last our chain;The Scythian half unbends his bowAnd quits the plain.Then fret not lest the state should ail;A private man such thoughts may spare;Enjoy the present hour's regale,And banish care.
HORACE.While I had power to bless you,Nor any round that neck his arms did flingMore privileged to caress you,Happier was Horace than the Persian king.
LYDIA. While you for none were piningSorer, nor Lydia after Chloe came,Lydia, her peers outshining,Might match her own with Ilia's Roman fame.
H. Now Chloe is my treasure,Whose voice, whose touch, can make sweet music flow:For her I'd die with pleasure,Would Fate but spare the dear survivor so.
L. I love my own fond lover,Young Calais, son of Thurian Ornytus:For him I'd die twice over,Would Fate but spare the sweet survivor thus.
H. What now, if Love returningShould pair us 'neath his brazen yoke once more,And, bright-hair'd Chloe spurning,Horace to off-cast Lydia ope his door?
L. Though he is fairer, milder,Than starlight, you lighter than bark of tree,Than stormy Hadria wilder,With you to live, to die, were bliss for me.
Ah Lyce! though your drink were Tanais,Your husband some rude savage, you would weepTo leave me shivering, on a night like this,Where storms their watches keep.Hark! how your door is creaking! how the groveIn your fair court-yard, while the wild winds blow,Wails in accord! with what transparence JoveIs glazing the driven snow!Cease that proud temper: Venus loves it not:The rope may break, the wheel may backward turn:Begetting you, no Tuscan sire begotPenelope the stern.O, though no gift, no "prevalence of prayer,"Nor lovers' paleness deep as violet,Nor husband, smit with a Pierian fair,Move you, have pity yet!O harder e'en than toughest heart of oak,Deafer than uncharm'd snake to suppliant moans!This side, I warn you, will not always brookRain-water and cold stones.
Come, Mercury, by whose minstrel spellAmphion raised the Theban stones,Come, with thy seven sweet strings, my shell,Thy "diverse tones,"Nor vocal once nor pleasant, nowTo rich man's board and temple dear:Put forth thy power, till Lyde bowHer stubborn ear.She, like a three year colt unbroke,Is frisking o'er the spacious plain,Too shy to bear a lover's yoke,A husband's rein.The wood, the tiger, at thy callHave follow'd: thou canst rivers stay:The monstrous guard of Pluto's hallTo thee gave way,Grim Cerberus, round whose Gorgon headA hundred snakes are hissing death,Whose triple jaws black venom shed,And sickening breath.Ixion too and Tityos smooth'dTheir rugged brows: the urn stood dryOne hour, while Danaus' maids were sooth'dWith minstrelsy.Let Lyde hear those maidens' guilt,Their famous doom, the ceaseless drainOf outpour'd water, ever spilt,And all the painReserved for sinners, e'en when dead:Those impious hands, (could crime do more?)Those impious hands had hearts to shedTheir bridegrooms' gore!One only, true to Hymen's flame,Was traitress to her sire forsworn:That splendid falsehood lights her nameThrough times unborn."Wake!" to her youthful spouse she cried,"Wake! or you yet may sleep too well:Fly—from the father of your bride,Her sisters fell:They, as she-lions bullocks rend,Tear each her victim: I, less hardThan these, will slay you not, poor friend,Nor hold in ward:Me let my sire in fetters layFor mercy to my husband shown:Me let him ship far hence away,To climes unknown.Go; speed your flight o'er land and wave,While Night and Venus shield you; goBe blest: and on my tomb engraveThis tale of woe."
How unhappy are the maidens who with Cupid may not play,Who may never touch the wine-cup, but must tremble all the dayAt an uncle, and the scourging of his tongue!Neobule, there's a robber takes your needle and your thread,Lets the lessons of Minerva run no longer in your head;It is Hebrus, the athletic and the young!O, to see him when anointed he is plunging in the flood!What a seat he has on horseback! was Bellerophon's as good?As a boxer, as a runner, past compare!When the deer are flying blindly all the open country o'er,He can aim and he can hit them; he can steal upon the boar,As it couches in the thicket unaware.
Bandusia's fount, in clearness crystalline,O worthy of the wine, the flowers we vow!To-morrow shall be thineA kid, whose crescent browIs sprouting all for love and victory.In vain: his warm red blood, so early stirr'd,Thy gelid stream shall dye,Child of the wanton herd.Thee the fierce Sirian star, to madness fired,Forbears to touch: sweet cool thy waters yieldTo ox with ploughing tired,And lazy sheep afield.Thou too one day shalt win proud eminence'Mid honour'd founts, while I the ilex singCrowning the cavern, whenceThy babbling wavelets spring.
Our Hercules, they told us, Rome,Had sought the laurel Death bestows:Now Glory brings him conqueror homeFrom Spaniard foes.Proud of her spouse, the imperial fairMust thank the gods that shield from death;His sister too:—let matrons wearThe suppliant wreathFor daughters and for sons restored:Ye youths and damsels newly wed,Let decent awe restrain each wordBest left unsaid.This day, true holyday to me,Shall banish care: I will not fearRude broils or bloody death to see,While Caesar's here.Quick, boy, the chaplets and the nard,And wine, that knew the Marsian war,If roving Spartacus have sparedA single jar.And bid Neaera come and trill,Her bright locks bound with careless art:If her rough porter cross your will,Why then depart.Soon palls the taste for noise and fray,When hair is white and leaves are sere:How had I fired in life's warm May,In Plancus' year!
Wife of Ibycus the poor,Let aged scandals have at length their bound:Give your graceless doings o'er,Ripe as you are for going underground.YOU the maidens' dance to lead,And cast your gloom upon those beaming stars!Daughter Pholoe may succeed,But mother Chloris what she touches mars.Young men's homes your daughter storms,Like Thyiad, madden'd by the cymbals' beat:Nothus' love her bosom warms:She gambols like a fawn with silver feet.Yours should be the wool that growsBy fair Luceria, not the merry lute:Flowers beseem not wither'd brows,Nor wither'd lips with emptied wine-jars suit.
Full well had Danae been secured, in truth,By oaken portals, and a brazen tower,And savage watch-dogs, from the roving youthThat prowl at midnight's hour:But Jove and Venus mock'd with gay disdainThe jealous warder of that close stronghold:The way, they knew, must soon be smooth and plainWhen gods could change to gold.Gold, gold can pass the tyrant's sentinel,Can shiver rocks with more resistless blowThan is the thunder's. Argos' prophet fell,He and his house laid low,And all for gain. The man of MacedonCleft gates of cities, rival kings o'erthrewBy force of gifts: their cunning snares have wonRude captains and their crew.As riches grow, care follows: men repineAnd thirst for more. No lofty crest I raise:Wisdom that thought forbids, Maecenas mine,The knightly order's praise.He that denies himself shall gain the moreFrom bounteous Heaven. I strip me of my pride,Desert the rich man's standard, and pass o'erTo bare Contentment's side,More proud as lord of what the great despiseThan if the wheat thresh'd on Apulia's floorI hoarded all in my huge granaries,'Mid vast possessions poor.A clear fresh stream, a little field o'ergrownWith shady trees, a crop that ne'er deceives,Pass, though men know it not, their wealth, that ownAll Afric's golden sheaves.Though no Calabrian bees their honey yieldFor me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wineIn Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-fieldThe wool grows long and fine,Yet Poverty ne'er comes to break my peace;If more I craved, you would not more refuse.Desiring less, I better shall increaseMy tiny revenues,Than if to Alyattes' wide domainsI join'd the realms of Mygdon. Great desiresSort with great wants. 'Tis best, when prayer obtainsNo more than life requires.
Aelius, of Lamus' ancient name(For since from that high parentageThe prehistoric Lamias cameAnd all who fill the storied page,No doubt you trace your line from him,Who stretch'd his sway o'er Formiae,And Liris, whose still waters swimWhere green Marica skirts the sea,Lord of broad realms), an eastern galeWill blow to-morrow, and bestrewThe shore with weeds, with leaves the vale,If rain's old prophet tell me true,The raven. Gather, while 'tis fine,Your wood; to-morrow shall be gayWith smoking pig and streaming wine,And lord and slave keep holyday.
O wont the flying Nymphs to woo,Good Faunus, through my sunny farmPass gently, gently pass, nor doMy younglings harm.Each year, thou know'st, a kid must dieFor thee; nor lacks the wine's full streamTo Venus' mate, the bowl; and highThe altars steam.Sure as December's nones appear,All o'er the grass the cattle play;The village, with the lazy steer,Keeps holyday.Wolves rove among the fearless sheep;The woods for thee their foliage strow;The delver loves on earth to leap,His ancient foe.
What the time from InachusTo Codrus, who in patriot battle fell,Who were sprung from Aeacus,And how men fought at Ilion,—this you tell.What the wines of Chios cost,Who with due heat our water can allay,What the hour, and who the hostTo give us house-room,—this you will not say.Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wineTo midnight, wine to our new augur too!Nine to three or three to nine,As each man pleases, makes proportion true.Who the uneven Muses loves,Will fire his dizzy brain with three times three;Three once told the Grace approves;She with her two bright sisters, gay and free,Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife:But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fireOf the Berecyntian fife?Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?Out on niggard-handed boys!Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear,Envious churl, our senseless noise,And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.You with your bright clustering hair,Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky,Rhoda loves, as young, as fair;I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.
O born in Manlius' year with me,Whate'er you bring us, plaint or jest,Or passion and wild revelry,Or, like a gentle wine-jar, rest;Howe'er men call your Massic juice,Its broaching claims a festal day;Come then; Corvinus bids produceA mellower wine, and I obey.Though steep'd in all Socratic loreHe will not slight you; do not fear.They say old Cato o'er and o'erWith wine his honest heart would cheer.Tough wits to your mild torture yieldTheir treasures; you unlock the soulOf wisdom and its stores conceal'd,Arm'd with Lyaeus' kind control.'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal;Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn;Inspired by you, the soldier's steel,The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn.Liber and Venus, wills she so,And sister Graces, ne'er unknit,And living lamps shall see you flowTill stars before the sunrise flit.
Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid,Who to young wives in childbirth's hourThrice call'd, vouchsafest sovereign aid,O three-form'd power!This pine that shades my cot be thine;Here will I slay, as years come round,A youngling boar, whose tusks designThe side-long wound.
If, Phidyle, your hands you liftTo heaven, as each new moon is born,Soothing your Lares with the giftOf slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn,Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assailYour vines, nor mildew blast your wheat,Ne'er shall your tender younglings failIn autumn, when the fruits are sweet.The destined victim 'mid the snowsOf Algidus in oakwoods fed,Or where the Alban herbage grows,Shall dye the pontiff's axes red;No need of butcher'd sheep for youTo make your homely prayers prevail;Give but your little gods their due,The rosemary twined with myrtle frail.The sprinkled salt, the votive meal,As soon their favour will regain,Let but the hand be pure and leal,As all the pomp of heifers slain.
Though your buried wealth surpassThe unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby,Though with many a ponderous massYou crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea,Let Necessity but driveHer wedge of adamant into that proud head,Vainly battling will you striveTo 'scape Death's noose, or rid your soul of dread.Better life the Scythians lead,Trailing on waggon wheels their wandering home,Or the hardy Getan breed,As o'er their vast unmeasured steppes they roam;Free the crops that bless their soil;Their tillage wearies after one year's space;Each in turn fulfils his toil;His period o'er, another takes his place.There the step-dame keeps her handFrom guilty plots, from blood of orphans clean;There no dowried wives commandTheir feeble lords, or on adulterers lean.Theirs are dowries not of gold,Their parents' worth, their own pure chastity,True to one, to others cold;They dare not sin, or, if they dare, they die.O, whoe'er has heart and headTo stay our plague of blood, our civic brawls,Would he that his name be read"Father of Rome" on lofty pedestals,Let him chain this lawless will,And be our children's hero! cursed spite!Living worth we envy still,Then seek it with strain'd eyes, when snatch'd from sight.What can sad laments availUnless sharp justice kill the taint of sin?What can laws, that needs must failShorn of the aid of manners form'd within,If the merchant turns not backFrom the fierce heats that round the tropic glow,Turns not from the regions blackWith northern winds, and hard with frozen snow;Sailors override the wave,While guilty poverty, more fear'd than vice,Bids us crime and suffering brave,And shuns the ascent of virtue's precipice?Let the Capitolian fane,The favour'd goal of yon vociferous crowd,Aye, or let the nearest mainReceive our gold, our jewels rich and proud:Slay we thus the cause of crime,If yet we would repent and choose the good:Ours the task to take in timeThis baleful lust, and crush it in the bud.Ours to mould our weakling sonsTo nobler sentiment and manlier deed:Now the noble's first-born shunsThe perilous chase, nor learns to sit his steed:Set him to the unlawful dice,Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!While his sire, mature in vice,A friend, a partner, or a guest betrays,Hurrying, for an heir so base,To gather riches. Money, root of ill,Doubt it not, still grows apace:Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.
Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me,Fill'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these,Thus in wildering race I see?What cave shall hearken to my melodies,Tuned to tell of Caesar's praiseAnd throne him high the heavenly ranks among?Sweet and strange shall be my lays,A tale till now by poet voice unsung.As the Evian on the height,Roused from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad,Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white,And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod,So my truant eyes admireThe banks, the desolate forests. O great KingWho the Naiads dost inspire,And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!Not a lowly strain is mine,No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweetThee to follow, God of wine,Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!
For ladies's love I late was fit,And good success my warfare blest,But now my arms, my lyre I quit,And hang them up to rust or rest.Here, where arising from the seaStands Venus, lay the load at last,Links, crowbars, and artillery,Threatening all doors that dared be fast.O Goddess! Cyprus owns thy sway,And Memphis, far from Thracian snow:Raise high thy lash, and deal me, pray,That haughty Chloe just one blow!
When guilt goes forth, let lapwings shrill,And dogs and foxes great with young,And wolves from far Lanuvian hill,Give clamorous tongue:Across the roadway dart the snake,Frightening, like arrow loosed from string,The horses. I, for friendship's sake,Watching each wing,Ere to his haunt, the stagnant marsh,The harbinger of tempest flies,Will call the raven, croaking harsh,From eastern skies.Farewell!—and wheresoe'er you go,My Galatea, think of me:Let lefthand pie and roving crowStill leave you free.But mark with what a front of fearOrion lowers. Ah! well I knowHow Hadria glooms, how falsely clearThe west-winds blow.Let foemen's wives and children feelThe gathering south-wind's angry roar,The black wave's crash, the thunder-peal,The quivering shore.So to the bull Europa gaveHer beauteous form, and when she sawThe monstrous deep, the yawning grave,Grew pale with awe.That morn of meadow-flowers she thought,Weaving a crown the nymphs to please:That gloomy night she look'd on noughtBut stars and seas.Then, as in hundred-citied CreteShe landed,—"O my sire!" she said,"O childly duty! passion's heatHas struck thee dead.Whence came I? death, for maiden's shame,Were little. Do I wake to weepMy sin? or am I pure of blame,And is it sleepFrom dreamland brings a form to trickMy senses? Which was best? to goOver the long, long waves, or pickThe flowers in blow?O, were that monster made my prize,How would I strive to wound that brow,How tear those horns, my frantic eyesAdored but now!Shameless I left my father's home;Shameless I cheat the expectant grave;O heaven, that naked I might roamIn lions' cave!Now, ere decay my bloom devourOr thin the richness of my blood,Fain would I fall in youth's first flower,The tigers' food.Hark! 'tis my father—Worthless one!What, yet alive? the oak is nigh.'Twas well you kept your maiden zone,The noose to tie.Or if your choice be that rude pike,New barb'd with death, leap down and askThe wind to bear you. Would you likeThe bondmaid's task,You, child of kings, a master's toy,A mistress' slave?'" Beside her, lo!Stood Venus smiling, and her boyWith unstrung bow.Then, when her laughter ceased, "Have doneWith fume and fret," she cried, "my fair;That odious bull will give you soonHis horns to tear.You know not you are Jove's own dame:Away with sobbing; be resign'dTo greatness: you shall give your nameTo half mankind."
Neptune's feast-day! what should manThink first of doing? Lyde mine, be bold,Broach the treasured Caecuban,And batter Wisdom in her own stronghold.Now the noon has pass'd the full,Yet sure you deem swift Time has made a halt,Tardy as you are to pullOld Bibulus' wine-jar from its sleepy vault.I will take my turn and singNeptune and Nereus' train with locks of green;You shall warble to the stringLatona and her Cynthia's arrowy sheen.Hers our latest song, who swaysCnidos and Cyclads, and to Paphos goesWith her swans, on holydays;Night too shall claim the homage music owes.
Heir of Tyrrhenian kings, for youA mellow cask, unbroach'd as yet,Maecenas mine, and roses new,And fresh-drawn oil your locks to wet,Are waiting here. Delay not still,Nor gaze on Tibur, never dried,And sloping AEsule, and the hillOf Telegon the parricide.O leave that pomp that can but tire,Those piles, among the clouds at home;Cease for a moment to admireThe smoke, the wealth, the noise of Rome!In change e'en luxury finds a zest:The poor man's supper, neat, but spare,With no gay couch to seat the guest,Has smooth'd the rugged brow of care.Now glows the Ethiop maiden's sire;Now Procyon rages all ablaze;The Lion maddens in his ire,As suns bring back the sultry days:The shepherd with his weary sheepSeeks out the streamlet and the trees,Silvanus' lair: the still banks sleepUntroubled by the wandering breeze.You ponder on imperial schemes,And o'er the city's danger brood:Bactrian and Serian haunt your dreams,And Tanais, toss'd by inward feud.The issue of the time to beHeaven wisely hides in blackest night,And laughs, should man's anxietyTransgress the bounds of man's short sight.Control the present: all besideFlows like a river seaward borne,Now rolling on its placid tide,Now whirling massy trunks uptorn,And waveworn crags, and farms, and stock,In chaos blent, while hill and woodReverberate to the enormous shock,When savage rains the tranquil floodHave stirr'd to madness. Happy he,Self-centred, who each night can say,"My life is lived: the morn may seeA clouded or a sunny day:That rests with Jove: but what is gone,He will not, cannot turn to nought;Nor cancel, as a thing undone,What once the flying hour has brought."Fortune, who loves her cruel game,Still bent upon some heartless whim,Shifts her caresses, fickle dame,Now kind to me, and now to him:She stays; 'tis well: but let her shakeThose wings, her presents I resign,Cloak me in native worth, and takeChaste Poverty undower'd for mine.Though storms around my vessel rave,I will not fall to craven prayers,Nor bargain by my vows to saveMy Cyprian and Sidonian wares,Else added to the insatiate main.Then through the wild Aegean roarThe breezes and the Brethren TwainShall waft my little boat ashore.
And now 'tis done: more durable than brassMy monument shall be, and raise its headO'er royal pyramids: it shall not dreadCorroding rain or angry Boreas,Nor the long lapse of immemorial time.I shall not wholly die: large residueShall 'scape the queen of funerals. Ever newMy after fame shall grow, while pontiffs climbWith silent maids the Capitolian height."Born," men will say, "where Aufidus is loud,Where Daunus, scant of streams, beneath him bow'dThe rustic tribes, from dimness he wax'd bright,First of his race to wed the Aeolian layTo notes of Italy." Put glory on,My own Melpomene, by genius won,And crown me of thy grace with Delphic bay.
Yet again thou wak'st the flameThat long had slumber'd! Spare me, Venus, spare!Trust me, I am not the sameAs in the reign of Cinara, kind and fair.Cease thy softening spells to proveOn this old heart, by fifty years made hard,Cruel Mother of sweet Love!Haste, where gay youth solicits thy regard.With thy purple cygnets flyTo Paullus' door, a seasonable guest;There within hold revelry,There light thy flame in that congenial breast.He, with birth and beauty graced,The trembling client's champion, ne'er tongue-tied,Master of each manly taste,Shall bear thy conquering banners far and wide.Let him smile in triumph gay,True heart, victorious over lavish hand,By the Alban lake that day'Neath citron roof all marble shalt thou stand:Incense there and fragrant spiceWith odorous fumes thy nostrils shall salute;Blended notes thine ear entice,The lyre, the pipe, the Berecyntine flute:Graceful youths and maidens brightShall twice a day thy tuneful praise resound,While their feet, so fair and white,In Salian measure three times beat the ground.I can relish love no more,Nor flattering hopes that tell me hearts are true,Nor the revel's loud uproar,Nor fresh-wreathed flowerets, bathed in vernal dew.Ah! but why, my Ligurine,Steal trickling tear-drops down my wasted cheek?Wherefore halts this tongue of mine,So eloquent once, so faltering now and weak?Now I hold you in my chain,And clasp you close, all in a nightly dream;Now, still dreaming, o'er the plainI chase you; now, ah cruel! down the stream.
Who fain at Pindar's flight would aim,On waxen wings, Iulus, heSoars heavenward, doom'd to give his nameTo some new sea.Pindar, like torrent from the steepWhich, swollen with rain, its banks o'erflows,With mouth unfathomably deep,Foams, thunders, glows,All worthy of Apollo's bay,Whether in dithyrambic rollPouring new words he burst awayBeyond control,Or gods and god-born heroes tell,Whose arm with righteous death could tameGrim Centaurs, tame Chimaeras fell,Out-breathing flame,Or bid the boxer or the steedIn deathless pride of victory live,And dower them with a nobler meedThan sculptors give,Or mourn the bridegroom early tornFrom his young bride, and set on highStrength, courage, virtue's golden morn,Too good to die.Antonius! yes, the winds blow free,When Dirce's swan ascends the skies,To waft him. I, like Matine bee,In act and guise,That culls its sweets through toilsome hours,Am roaming Tibur's banks along,And fashioning with puny powersA laboured song.Your Muse shall sing in loftier strainHow Caesar climbs the sacred height,The fierce Sygambrians in his train,With laurel dight,Than whom the Fates ne'er gave mankindA richer treasure or more dear,Nor shall, though earth again should findThe golden year.Your Muse shall tell of public sports,And holyday, and votive feast,For Caesar's sake, and brawling courtsWhere strife has ceased.Then, if my voice can aught avail,Grateful for him our prayers have won,My song shall echo, "Hail, all hail,Auspicious Sun!"There as you move, "Ho! Triumph, ho!Great Triumph!" once and yet againAll Rome shall cry, and spices strowBefore your train.Ten bulls, ten kine, your debt discharge:A calf new-wean'd from parent cow,Battening on pastures rich and large,Shall quit my vow.Like moon just dawning on the nightThe crescent honours of his head;One dapple spot of snowy white,The rest all red.
He whom thou, Melpomene,Hast welcomed with thy smile, in life arriving,Ne'er by boxer's skill shall beRenown'd abroad, for Isthmian mastery striving;Him shall never fiery steedDraw in Achaean car a conqueror seated;Him shall never martial deedShow, crown'd with bay, after proud kings defeated,Climbing Capitolian steep:But the cool streams that make green Tibur flourish,And the tangled forest deep,On soft Aeolian airs his fame shall nourish.Rome, of cities first and best,Deigns by her sons' according voice to hail meFellow-bard of poets blest,And faint and fainter envy's growls assail me.Goddess, whose Pierian artThe lyre's sweet sounds can modulate and measure,Who to dumb fish canst impartThe music of the swan, if such thy pleasure:O, 'tis all of thy dear graceThat every finger points me out in goingLyrist of the Roman race;Breath, power to charm, if mine, are thy bestowing!
E'en as the lightning's minister,Whom Jove o'er all the feather'd breedMade sovereign, having proved him sureErewhile on auburn Ganymede;Stirr'd by warm youth and inborn power,He quits the nest with timorous wing,For winter's storms have ceased to lower,And zephyrs of returning springTempt him to launch on unknown skies;Next on the fold he stoops downright;Last on resisting serpents flies,Athirst for foray and for flight:As tender kidling on the grassEspies, uplooking from her food,A lion's whelp, and knows, alas!Those new-set teeth shall drink her blood:So look'd the Raetian mountaineersOn Drusus:—whence in every fieldThey learn'd through immemorial yearsThe Amazonian axe to wield,I ask not now: not all of truthWe seekers find: enough to knowThe wisdom of the princely youthHas taught our erst victorious foeWhat prowess dwells in boyish heartsRear'd in the shrine of a pure home,What strength Augustus' love impartsTo Nero's seed, the hope of Rome.Good sons and brave good sires approve:Strong bullocks, fiery colts, attestTheir fathers' worth, nor weakling doveIs hatch'd in savage eagle's nest.But care draws forth the power within,And cultured minds are strong for good:Let manners fail, the plague of sinTaints e'en the course of gentle blood.How great thy debt to Nero's race,O Rome, let red Metaurus say,Slain Hasdrubal, and victory's graceFirst granted on that glorious dayWhich chased the clouds, and show'd the sun,When Hannibal o'er ItalyRan, as swift flames o'er pine-woods run,Or Eurus o'er Sicilia's sea.Henceforth, by fortune aiding toil,Rome's prowess grew: her fanes, laid wasteBy Punic sacrilege and spoil,Beheld at length their gods replaced.Then the false Libyan own'd his doom:—"Weak deer, the wolves' predestined prey,Blindly we rush on foes, from whom'Twere triumph won to steal away.That race which, strong from Ilion's fires,Its gods, on Tuscan waters tost,Its sons, its venerable sires,Bore to Ausonia's citied coast;That race, like oak by axes shornOn Algidus with dark leaves rife,Laughs carnage, havoc, all to scorn,And draws new spirit from the knife.Not the lopp'd Hydra task'd so soreAlcides, chafing at the foil:No pest so fell was born of yoreFrom Colchian or from Theban soil.Plunged in the deep, it mounts to sightMore splendid: grappled, it will quellUnbroken powers, and fight a fightWhose story widow'd wives shall tell.No heralds shall my deeds proclaimTo Carthage now: lost, lost is all:A nation's hope, a nation's name,They died with dying Hasdrubal."What will not Claudian hands achieve?Jove's favour is their guiding star,And watchful potencies unweaveFor them the tangled paths of war.
Best guardian of Rome's people, dearest boonOf a kind Heaven, thou lingerest all too long:Thou bad'st thy senate look to meet thee soon:Do not thy promise wrong.Restore, dear chief, the light thou tak'st away:Ah! when, like spring, that gracious mien of thineDawns on thy Rome, more gently glides the day,And suns serener shine.See her whose darling child a long year pastHas dwelt beyond the wild Carpathian foam;That long year o'er, the envious southern blastStill bars him from his home:Weeping and praying to the shore she clings,Nor ever thence her straining eyesight turns:So, smit by loyal passion's restless stings,Rome for her Caesar yearns.In safety range the cattle o'er the mead:Sweet Peace, soft Plenty, swell the golden grain:O'er unvex'd seas the sailors blithely speed:Fair Honour shrinks from stain:No guilty lusts the shrine of home defile:Cleansed is the hand without, the heart within:The father's features in his children smile:Swift vengeance follows sin.Who fears the Parthian or the Scythian horde,Or the rank growth that German forests yield,While Caesar lives? who trembles at the swordThe fierce Iberians wield?In his own hills each labours down the day,Teaching the vine to clasp the widow'd tree:Then to his cups again, where, feasting gay,He hails his god in thee.A household power, adored with prayers and wine,Thou reign'st auspicious o'er his hour of ease:Thus grateful Greece her Castor made divine,And her great Hercules.Ah! be it thine long holydays to giveTo thy Hesperia! thus, dear chief, we prayAt sober sunrise; thus at mellow eve,When ocean hides the day.
Thou who didst make thy vengeful mightTo Niobe and Tityos known,And Peleus' son, when Troy's tall heightWas nigh his own,Victorious else, for thee no peer,Though, strong in his sea-parent's power,He shook with that tremendous spearThe Dardan tower.He, like a pine by axes sped,Or cypress sway'd by angry gust,Fell ruining, and laid his headIn Trojan dust.Not his to lie in covert pentOf the false steed, and sudden fallOn Priam's ill-starr'd merrimentIn bower and hall:His ruthless arm in broad bare dayThe infant from the breast had torn,Nay, given to flame, ah, well a way!The babe unborn:But, won by Venus' voice and thine,Relenting Jove Aeneas will'dWith other omens more benignNew walls to build.Sweet tuner of the Grecian lyre,Whose locks are laved in Xanthus' dews,Blooming Agyieus! help, inspireMy Daunian Muse!'Tis Phoebus, Phoebus gifts my tongueWith minstrel art and minstrel fires:Come, noble youths and maidens sprungFrom noble sires,Blest in your Dian's guardian smile,Whose shafts the flying silvans stay,Come, foot the Lesbian measure, whileThe lyre I play:Sing of Latona's glorious boy,Sing of night's queen with crescent horn,Who wings the fleeting months with joy,And swells the corn.And happy brides shall say, "'Twas mine,When years the cyclic season brought,To chant the festal hymn divineBy HORACE taught."
The snow is fled: the trees their leaves put on,The fields their green:Earth owns the change, and rivers lessening run.Their banks between.Naked the Nymphs and Graces in the meadsThe dance essay:"No 'scaping death" proclaims the year, that speedsThis sweet spring day.Frosts yield to zephyrs; Summer drives out Spring,To vanish, whenRich Autumn sheds his fruits; round wheels the ring,—Winter again!Yet the swift moons repair Heaven's detriment:We, soon as thrustWhere good Aeneas, Tullus, Ancus went,What are we? dust.Can Hope assure you one more day to liveFrom powers above?You rescue from your heir whate'er you giveThe self you love.When life is o'er, and Minos has rehearsedThe grand last doom,Not birth, nor eloquence, nor worth, shall burstTorquatus' tomb.Not Dian's self can chaste HippolytusTo life recall,Nor Theseus free his loved PirithousFrom Lethe's thrall.
Ah Censorinus! to my comrades trueRich cups, rare bronzes, gladly would I send:Choice tripods from Olympia on each friendWould I confer, choicer on none than you,Had but my fate such gems of art bestow'dAs cunning Scopas or Parrhasius wrought,This with the brush, that with the chisel taughtTo image now a mortal, now a god.But these are not my riches: your desireSuch luxury craves not, and your means disdain:A poet's strain you love; a poet's strainAccept, and learn the value of the lyre.Not public gravings on a marble base,Whence comes a second life to men of mightE'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight,Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face,Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze,In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame,Who from crush'd Afric took away—a name,Than rude Calabria's tributary lays.Let silence hide the good your hand has wrought.Farewell, reward! Had blank oblivion's powerDimm'd the bright deeds of Romulus, at this hour,Despite his sire and mother, he were nought.Thus Aeacus has 'scaped the Stygian wave,By grace of poets and their silver tongue,Henceforth to live the happy isles among.No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave,And lifts him to the gods. So Hercules,His labours o'er, sits at the board of Jove:So Tyndareus' offspring shine as stars above,Saving lorn vessels from the yawning seas:So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair,Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.
Think not those strains can e'er expire,Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roarOf Aufidus, to Latium's lyreI sing with arts unknown before.Though Homer fill the foremost throne,Yet grave Stesichorus still can please,And fierce Alcaeus holds his own,With Pindar and Simonides.The songs of Teos are not mute,And Sappho's love is breathing still:She told her secret to the lute,And yet its chords with passion thrill.Not Sparta's queen alone was firedBy broider'd robe and braided tress,And all the splendours that attiredHer lover's guilty loveliness:Not only Teucer to the fieldHis arrows brought, nor IlionBeneath a single conqueror reel'd:Not Crete's majestic lord alone,Or Sthenelus, earn'd the Muses' crown:Not Hector first for child and wife,Or brave Deiphobus, laid downThe burden of a manly life.Before Atrides men were brave:But ah! oblivion, dark and long,Has lock'd them in a tearless grave,For lack of consecrating song.'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death,What difference? YOU shall ne'er be dumb,While strains of mine have voice and breath:The dull neglect of days to comeThose hard-won honours shall not blight:No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours,Clear-sighted, keen, alike uprightWhen fortune smiles, and when she lowers:To greed and rapine still severe,Spurning the gain men find so sweet:A consul, not of one brief year,But oft as on the judgment-seatYou bend the expedient to the right,Turn haughty eyes from bribes away,Or bear your banners through the fight,Scattering the foeman's firm array.The lord of boundless revenues,Salute not him as happy: no,Call him the happy, who can useThe bounty that the gods bestow,Can bear the load of poverty,And tremble not at death, but sin:No recreant he when called to dieIn cause of country or of kin.