Varus, are your trees in planting? put in none before the vine,In the rich domain of Tibur, by the walls of Catilus;There's a power above that hampers all that sober brains design,And the troubles man is heir to thus are quell'd, and only thus.Who can talk of want or warfare when the wine is in his head,Not of thee, good father Bacchus, and of Venus fair and bright?But should any dream of licence, there's a lesson may be read,How 'twas wine that drove the Centaurs with the Lapithae to fight.And the Thracians too may warn us; truth and falsehood, good andill,How they mix them, when the wine-god's hand is heavy on them laid!Never, never, gracious Bacchus, may I move thee 'gainst thy will,Or uncover what is hidden in the verdure of thy shade!Silence thou thy savage cymbals, and the Berecyntine horn;In their train Self-love still follows, dully, desperatelyblind,And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its empty-headed scorn,And the Faith that keeps no secrets, with a window in its mind.
Cupid's mother, cruel dame,And Semele's Theban boy, and Licence bold,Bid me kindle into flameThis heart, by waning passion now left cold.O, the charms of Glycera,That hue, more dazzling than the Parian stone!O, that sweet tormenting play,That too fair face, that blinds when look'd upon!Venus comes in all her might,Quits Cyprus for my heart, nor lets me tellOf the Parthian, hold in flight,Nor Scythian hordes, nor aught that breaks her spell.Heap the grassy altar up,Bring vervain, boys, and sacred frankincense;Fill the sacrificial cup;A victim's blood will soothe her vehemence.
Not large my cups, nor rich my cheer,This Sabine wine, which erst I seal'd,That day the applauding theatreYour welcome peal'd,Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fainThat your paternal river's banks,And Vatican, in sportive strain,Should echo thanks.For you Calenian grapes are press'd,And Caecuban; these cups of mineFalernum's bounty ne'er has bless'd,Nor Formian vine.
Of Dian's praises, tender maidens, tell;Of Cynthus' unshorn god, young striplings, sing;And bright Latona, wellBeloved of Heaven's high King.Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,In Erymanthian grovesDark-leaved, or Cragus green.Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud,And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair,His golden quiver proudAnd brother's lyre to bear.His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and WarTo Persia and to Britain's coast, awayFrom Rome and Caesar far,If you have zeal to pray.
No need of Moorish archer's craftTo guard the pure and stainless liver;He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaftTo store his quiver,Whether he traverse Libyan shoals,Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent,Or lands where far Hydaspes rollsHis fabled torrent.A wolf, while roaming trouble-freeIn Sabine wood, as fancy led me,Unarm'd I sang my Lalage,Beheld, and fled me.Dire monster! in her broad oak woodsFierce Daunia fosters none such other,Nor Juba's land, of lion broodsThe thirsty mother.Place me where on the ice-bound plainNo tree is cheer'd by summer breezes,Where Jove descends in sleety rainOr sullen freezes;Place me where none can live for heat,'Neath Phoebus' very chariot plant me,That smile so sweet, that voice so sweet,Shall still enchant me.
You fly me, Chloe, as o'er trackless hillsA young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,Whom empty terror thrillsOf woods and whispering wind.Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heardThrough the light leaves, or lizards in the brakeThe rustling thorns have stirr'd,Her heart, her knees, they quake.Yet I, who chase you, no grim lion am,No tiger fell, to crush you in my gripe:Come, learn to leave your dam,For lover's kisses ripe.
Why blush to let our tears unmeasured fallFor one so dear? Begin the mournful stave,Melpomene, to whom the Sire of allSweet voice with music gave.And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death,Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dearOf Justice! naked Truth! unsullied Faith!When will ye find his peer?By many a good man wept. Quintilius dies;By none than you, my Virgil, trulier wept:Devout in vain, you chide the faithless skies,Asking your loan ill-kept.No, though more suasive than the bard of ThraceYou swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale faceWhom once with wand severeMercury has folded with the sons of night,Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more lightWhat sorrow may not heal.
The Muses love me: fear and grief,The winds may blow them to the sea;Who quail before the wintry chiefOf Scythia's realm, is nought to me.What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,I care not, I. O, nymph divineOf virgin springs, with sunniest flowersA chaplet for my Lamia twine,Pimplea sweet! my praise were vainWithout thee. String this maiden lyre,Attune for him the Lesbian strain,O goddess, with thy sister quire!
What, fight with cups that should give joy?'Tis barbarous; leave such savage waysTo Thracians. Bacchus, shamefaced boy,Is blushing at your bloody frays.The Median sabre! lights and wine!Was stranger contrast ever seen?Cease, cease this brawling, comrades mine,And still upon your elbows lean.Well, shall I take a toper's partOf fierce Falernian? let our guest,Megilla's brother, say what dartGave the death-wound that makes him blest.He hesitates? no other hireShall tempt my sober brains. Whate'erThe goddess tames you, no base fireShe kindles; 'tis some gentle fairAllures you still. Come, tell me truth,And trust my honour.—That the name?That wild Charybdis yours? Poor youth!O, you deserved a better flame!What wizard, what Thessalian spell,What god can save you, hamper'd thus?To cope with this Chimaera fellWould task another Pegasus.
The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!A little dust on Matine shore has spann'dThat soaring spirit; vain it was to passThe gates of heaven, and send thy soul in questO'er air's wide realms; for thou hadst yet to die.Ay, dead is Pelops' father, heaven's own guest,And old Tithonus, rapt from earth to sky,And Minos, made the council-friend of Jove;And Panthus' son has yielded up his breathOnce more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to proveHis prowess under Troy, and bade grim deathO'er skin and nerves alone exert its power,Not he, you grant, in nature meanly read.Yes, all "await the inevitable hour;"The downward journey all one day must tread.Some bleed, to glut the war-god's savage eyes;Fate meets the sailor from the hungry brine;Youth jostles age in funeral obsequies;Each brow in turn is touch'd by Proserpine.Me, too, Orion's mate, the Southern blast,Whelm'd in deep death beneath the Illyrian wave.But grudge not, sailor, of driven sand to castA handful on my head, that owns no grave.So, though the eastern tempests loudly threatHesperia's main, may green Venusia's crownBe stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yetStream from Tarentum's guard, great Neptune, down,And gracious Jove, into your open lap!What! shrink you not from crime whose punishmentFalls on your innocent children? it may hapImperious Fate will make yourself repent.My prayers shall reach the avengers of all wrong;No expiations shall the curse unbind.Great though your haste, I would not task you long;Thrice sprinkle dust, then scud before the wind.
Your heart on Arab wealth is set,Good Iccius: you would try your steelOn Saba's kings, unconquer'd yet,And make the Mede your fetters feel.Come, tell me what barbarian fairWill serve you now, her bridegroom slain?What page from court with essenced hairWill tender you the bowl you drain,Well skill'd to bend the Serian bowHis father carried? Who shall sayThat rivers may not uphill flow,And Tiber's self return one day,If you would change Panaetius' works,That costly purchase, and the clanOf Socrates, for shields and dirks,Whom once we thought a saner man?
Come, Cnidian, Paphian Venus, come,Thy well-beloved Cyprus spurn,Haste, where for thee in Glycera's homeSweet odours burn.Bring too thy Cupid, glowing warm,Graces and Nymphs, unzoned and free,And Youth, that lacking thee lacks charm,And Mercury.
What blessing shall the bard entreatThe god he hallows, as he poursThe winecup? Not the mounds of wheatThat load Sardinian threshing floors;Not Indian gold or ivory—no,Nor flocks that o'er Calabria stray,Nor fields that Liris, still and slow,Is eating, unperceived, away.Let those whose fate allows them trainCalenum's vine; let trader boldFrom golden cups rich liquor drainFor wares of Syria bought and sold,Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a-yearHe comes and goes across the brineUndamaged. I in plenty hereOn endives, mallows, succory dine.O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,Strength unimpair'd, a mind entire,Old age without dishonour spent,Nor unbefriended by the lyre!
They call;—if aught in shady dellWe twain have warbled, to remainLong months or years, now breathe, my shell,A Roman strain,Thou, strung by Lesbos' minstrel hand,The bard, who 'mid the clash of steel,Or haply mooring to the strandHis batter'd keel,Of Bacchus and the Muses sung,And Cupid, still at Venus' side,And Lycus, beautiful and young,Dark-hair'd, dark-eyed.O sweetest lyre, to Phoebus dear,Delight of Jove's high festival,Blest balm in trouble, hail and hearWhene'er I call!
What, Albius! why this passionate despairFor cruel Glycera? why melt your voiceIn dolorous strains, because the perjured fairHas made a younger choice?See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glowsFor Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his headTo Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roesApulian wolves shall wed,Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike:So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yokeShe loves to couple forms and minds unlike,All for a heartless joke.For me sweet Love had forged a milder spell;But Myrtale still kept me her fond slave,More stormy she than the tempestuous swellThat crests Calabria's wave.
My prayers were scant, my offerings few,While witless wisdom fool'd my mind;But now I trim my sails anew,And trace the course I left behind.For lo! the Sire of heaven on high,By whose fierce bolts the clouds are riven,To-day through an unclouded skyHis thundering steeds and car has driven.E'en now dull earth and wandering floods,And Atlas' limitary range,And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodesAre reeling. He can lowliest changeAnd loftiest; bring the mighty downAnd lift the weak; with whirring flightComes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown,And decks therewith some meaner wight.
Lady of Antium, grave and stern!O Goddess, who canst lift the lowTo high estate, and sudden turnA triumph to a funeral show!Thee the poor hind that tills the soilImplores; their queen they own in thee,Who in Bithynian vessel toilAmid the vex'd Carpathian sea.Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes,Peoples and towns, and Koine, their head,And mothers of barbarian lords,And tyrants in their purple dread,Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fallThe state's tall prop, lest crowds on fireTo arms, to arms! the loiterers call,And thrones be tumbled in the mire.Necessity precedes thee stillWith hard fierce eyes and heavy tramp:Her hand the nails and wedges fill,The molten lead and stubborn clamp.Hope, precious Truth in garb of white,Attend thee still, nor quit thy sideWhen with changed robes thou tak'st thy flightIn anger from the homes of pride.Then the false herd, the faithless fair,Start backward; when the wine runs dry,The jocund guests, too light to bearAn equal yoke, asunder fly.O shield our Caesar as he goesTo furthest Britain, and his band,Rome's harvest! Send on Eastern foesTheir fear, and on the Red Sea strand!O wounds that scarce have ceased to run!O brother's blood! O iron time!What horror have we left undone?Has conscience shrunk from aught of crime?What shrine has rapine held in awe?What altar spared? O haste and beatThe blunted steel we yet may drawOn Arab and on Massagete!
Bid the lyre and cittern play;Enkindle incense, shed the victim's gore;Heaven has watch'd o'er Numida,And brings him safe from far Hispania's shore.Now, returning, he bestowsOn each, dear comrade all the love he can;But to Lamia most he owes,By whose sweet side he grew from boy to man.Note we in our calendarThis festal day with whitest mark from Crete:Let it flow, the old wine-jar,And ply to Salian time your restless feet.Damalis tosses off her wine,But Bassus sure must prove her match to-night.Give us roses all to twine,And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.Every melting eye will restOn Damalis' lovely face; but none may partDamalis from our new-found guest;She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.
Now drink we deep, now featly treadA measure; now before each shrineWith Salian feasts the table spread;The time invites us, comrades mine.'Twas shame to broach, before to-day,The Caecuban, while Egypt's dameThreaten'd our power in dust to layAnd wrap the Capitol in flame,Girt with her foul emasculate throng,By Fortune's sweet new wine befool'd,In hope's ungovern'd weakness strongTo hope for all; but soon she cool'd,To see one ship from burning 'scape;Great Caesar taught her dizzy brain,Made mad by Mareotic grape,To feel the sobering truth of pain,And gave her chase from Italy,As after doves fierce falcons speed,As hunters 'neath Haemonia's skyChase the tired hare, so might he leadThe fiend enchain'd; SHE sought to dieMore nobly, nor with woman's dreadQuail'd at the steel, nor timorouslyIn her fleet ships to covert fled.Amid her ruin'd halls she stoodUnblench'd, and fearless to the endGrasp'd the fell snakes, that all her bloodMight with the cold black venom blend,Death's purpose flushing in her face;Nor to our ships the glory gave,That she, no vulgar dame, should graceA triumph, crownless, and a slave.
No Persian cumber, boy, for me;I hate your garlands linden-plaited;Leave winter's rose where on the treeIt hangs belated.Wreath me plain myrtle; never thinkPlain myrtle either's wear unfitting,Yours as you wait, mine as I drinkIn vine-bower sitting.
The broils that from Metellus date,The secret springs, the dark intrigues,The freaks of Fortune, and the greatConfederate in disastrous leagues,And arms with uncleansed slaughter red,A work of danger and distrust,You treat, as one on fire should tread,Scarce hid by treacherous ashen crust.Let Tragedy's stern muse be muteAwhile; and when your order'd pageHas told Rome's tale, that buskin'd footAgain shall mount the Attic stage,Pollio, the pale defendant's shield,In deep debate the senate's stay,The hero of Dalmatic fieldBy Triumph crown'd with deathless bay.E'en now with trumpet's threatening blareYou thrill our ears; the clarion brays;The lightnings of the armour scareThe steed, and daunt the rider's gaze.Methinks I hear of leaders proudWith no uncomely dust distain'd,And all the world by conquest bow'd,And only Cato's soul unchain'd.Yes, Juno and the powers on highThat left their Afric to its doom,Have led the victors' progenyAs victims to Jugurtha's tomb.What field, by Latian blood-drops fed,Proclaims not the unnatural deedsIt buries, and the earthquake dreadWhose distant thunder shook the Medes?What gulf, what river has not seenThose sights of sorrow? nay, what seaHas Daunian carnage yet left green?What coast from Roman blood is free?But pause, gay Muse, nor leave your playAnother Cean dirge to sing;With me to Venus' bower away,And there attune a lighter string.
The silver, Sallust, shows not fairWhile buried in the greedy mine:You love it not till moderate wearHave given it shine.Honour to Proculeius! heTo brethren play'd a father's part;Fame shall embalm through years to beThat noble heart.Who curbs a greedy soul may boastMore power than if his broad-based throneBridged Libya's sea, and either coastWere all his own.Indulgence bids the dropsy grow;Who fain would quench the palate's flameMust rescue from the watery foeThe pale weak frame.Phraates, throned where Cyrus sate,May count for blest with vulgar herds,But not with Virtue; soon or lateFrom lying wordsShe weans men's lips; for him she keepsThe crown, the purple, and the bays,Who dares to look on treasure-heapsWith unblench'd gaze.
An equal mind, when storms o'ercloud,Maintain, nor 'neath a brighter skyLet pleasure make your heart too proud,O Dellius, Dellius! sure to die,Whether in gloom you spend each year,Or through long holydays at easeIn grassy nook your spirit cheerWith old Falernian vintages,Where poplar pale, and pine-tree highTheir hospitable shadows spreadEntwined, and panting waters tryTo hurry down their zigzag bed.Bring wine and scents, and roses' bloom,Too brief, alas! to that sweet place,While life, and fortune, and the loomOf the Three Sisters yield you grace.Soon must you leave the woods you buy,Your villa, wash'd by Tiber's flow,Leave,—and your treasures, heap'd so high,Your reckless heir will level low.Whether from Argos' founder bornIn wealth you lived beneath the sun,Or nursed in beggary and scorn,You fall to Death, who pities none.One way all travel; the dark urnShakes each man's lot, that soon or lateWill force him, hopeless of return,On board the exile-ship of Fate.
Why, Xanthias, blush to own you loveYour slave? Briseis, long ago,A captive, could Achilles moveWith breast of snow.Tecmessa's charms enslaved her lord,Stout Ajax, heir of Telamon;Atrides, in his pride, adoredThe maid he won,When Troy to Thessaly gave way,And Hector's all too quick deceaseMade Pergamus an easier preyTo wearied Greece.What if, as auburn Phyllis' mate,You graft yourself on regal stem?Oh yes! be sure her sires were great;She weeps for THEM.Believe me, from no rascal scumYour charmer sprang; so true a flame,Such hate of greed, could never comeFrom vulgar dame.With honest fervour I commendThose lips, those eyes; you need not fearA rival, hurrying on to endHis fortieth year.
Septimius, who with me would braveFar Gades, and Cantabrian landUntamed by Home, and Moorish waveThat whirls the sand;Fair Tibur, town of Argive kings,There would I end my days serene,At rest from seas and travellings,And service seen.Should angry Fate those wishes foil,Then let me seek Galesus, sweetTo skin-clad sheep, and that rich soil,The Spartan's seat.O, what can match the green recess,Whose honey not to Hybla yields,Whose olives vie with those that blessVenafrum's fields?Long springs, mild winters glad that spotBy Jove's good grace, and Aulon, dearTo fruitful Bacchus, envies notFalernian cheer.That spot, those happy heights desireOur sojourn; there, when life shall end,Your tear shall dew my yet warm pyre,Your bard and friend.
O, Oft with me in troublous timeInvolved, when Brutus warr'd in Greece,Who gives you back to your own climeAnd your own gods, a man of peace,Pompey, the earliest friend I knew,With whom I oft cut short the hoursWith wine, my hair bright bathed in dewOf Syrian oils, and wreathed with flowers?With you I shared Philippi's rout,Unseemly parted from my shield,When Valour fell, and warriors stoutWere tumbled on the inglorious field:But I was saved by Mercury,Wrapp'd in thick mist, yet trembling sore,While you to that tempestuous seaWere swept by battle's tide once more.Come, pay to Jove the feast you owe;Lay down those limbs, with warfare spent,Beneath my laurel; nor be slowTo drain my cask; for you 'twas meant.Lethe's true draught is Massic wine;Fill high the goblet; pour out freeRich streams of unguent. Who will twineThe hasty wreath from myrtle-treeOr parsley? Whom will Venus seatChairman of cups? Are Bacchants sane?Then I'll be sober. O, 'tis sweetTo fool, when friends come home again!
Had chastisement for perjured truth,Barine, mark'd you with a curse—Did one wry nail, or one black tooth,But make you worse—I'd trust you; but, when plighted liesHave pledged you deepest, lovelier farYou sparkle forth, of all young eyesThe ruling star.'Tis gain to mock your mother's bones,And night's still signs, and all the sky,And gods, that on their glorious thronesChill Death defy.Ay, Venus smiles; the pure nymphs smile,And Cupid, tyrant-lord of hearts,Sharpening on bloody stone the whileHis fiery darts.New captives fill the nets you weave;New slaves are bred; and those before,Though oft they threaten, never leaveYour godless door.The mother dreads you for her son,The thrifty sire, the new-wed bride,Lest, lured by you, her precious oneShould leave her side.
The rain, it rains not every dayOn the soak'd meads; the Caspian mainNot always feels the unequal swayOf storms, nor on Armenia's plain,Dear Valgius, lies the cold dull snowThrough all the year; nor northwinds keenUpon Garganian oakwoods blow,And strip the ashes of their green.You still with tearful tones pursueYour lost, lost Mystes; Hesper seesYour passion when he brings the dew,And when before the sun he flees.Yet not for loved AntilochusGrey Nestor wasted all his yearsIn grief; nor o'er young TroilusHis parents' and his sisters' tearsFor ever flow'd. At length have doneWith these soft sorrows; rather tellOf Caesar's trophies newly won,And hoar Niphates' icy fell,And Medus' flood, 'mid conquer'd tribesRolling a less presumptuous tide,And Scythians taught, as Rome prescribes,Henceforth o'er narrower steppes to ride.
Licinius, trust a seaman's lore:Steer not too boldly to the deep,Nor, fearing storms, by treacherous shoreToo closely creep.Who makes the golden mean his guide,Shuns miser's cabin, foul and dark,Shuns gilded roofs, where pomp and prideAre envy's mark.With fiercer blasts the pine's dim heightIs rock'd; proud towers with heavier fallCrash to the ground; and thunders smiteThe mountains tall.In sadness hope, in gladness fear'Gainst coming change will fortifyYour breast. The storms that JupiterSweeps o'er the skyHe chases. Why should rain to-dayBring rain to-morrow? Python's foeIs pleased sometimes his lyre to play,Nor bends his bow.Be brave in trouble; meet distressWith dauntless front; but when the galeToo prosperous blows, be wise no less,And shorten sail.
O, Ask not what those sons of war,Cantabrian, Scythian, each intend,Disjoin'd from us by Hadria's bar,Nor puzzle, Quintius, how to spendA life so simple. Youth removes,And Beauty too; and hoar DecayDrives out the wanton tribe of LovesAnd Sleep, that came or night or day.The sweet spring-flowers not always keepTheir bloom, nor moonlight shines the sameEach evening. Why with thoughts too deepO'ertask a mind of mortal frame?Why not, just thrown at careless ease'Neath plane or pine, our locks of greyPerfumed with Syrian essencesAnd wreathed with roses, while we may,Lie drinking? Bacchus puts to shameThe cares that waste us. Where's the slaveTo quench the fierce Falernian's flameWith water from the passing wave?Who'll coax coy Lyde from her home?Go, bid her take her ivory lyre,The runaway, and haste to come,Her wild hair bound with Spartan tire.
The weary war where fierce Numantia bled,Fell Hannibal, the swoln Sicilian mainPurpled with Punic blood—not mine to wedThese to the lyre's soft strain,Nor cruel Lapithae, nor, mad with wine,Centaurs, nor, by Herculean arm o'ercome,The earth-born youth, whose terrors dimm'd the shineOf the resplendent domeOf ancient Saturn. You, Maecenas, bestIn pictured prose of Caesar's warrior featsWill tell, and captive kings with haughty crestLed through the Roman streets.On me the Muse has laid her charge to tellOf your Licymnia's voice, the lustrous hueOf her bright eye, her heart that beats so wellTo mutual passion true:How nought she does but lends her added grace,Whether she dance, or join in bantering play,Or with soft arms the maiden choir embraceOn great Diana's day.Say, would you change for all the wealth possestBy rich Achaemenes or Phrygia's heir,Or the full stores of Araby the blest,One lock of her dear hair,While to your burning lips she bends her neck,Or with kind cruelty denies the dueShe means you not to beg for, but to take,Or snatches it from you?
Black day he chose for planting thee,Accurst he rear'd thee from the ground,The bane of children yet to be,The scandal of the village round.His father's throat the monster press'dBeside, and on his hearthstone spilt,I ween, the blood of midnight guest;Black Colchian drugs, whate'er of guiltIs hatch'd on earth, he dealt in all—Who planted in my rural steadThee, fatal wood, thee, sure to fallUpon thy blameless master's head.The dangers of the hour! no thoughtWe give them; Punic seaman's fearIs all of Bosporus, nor aughtRecks he of pitfalls otherwhere;The soldier fears the mask'd retreatOf Parthia; Parthia dreads the thrallOf Rome; but Death with noiseless feetHas stolen and will steal on all.How near dark Pluto's court I stood,And AEacus' judicial throne,The blest seclusion of the good,And Sappho, with sweet lyric moanBewailing her ungentle sex,And thee, Alcaeus, louder farChanting thy tale of woful wrecks,Of woful exile, woful war!In sacred awe the silent deadAttend on each: but when the songOf combat tells and tyrants fled,Keen ears, press'd shoulders, closer throng.What marvel, when at those sweet airsThe hundred-headed beast spell-boundEach black ear droops, and Furies' hairsUncoil their serpents at the sound?Prometheus too and Pelops' sireIn listening lose the sense of woe;Orion hearkens to the lyre,And lets the lynx and lion go.
Ah, Postumus! they fleet away,Our years, nor piety one hourCan win from wrinkles and decay,And Death's indomitable power;Not though three hundred bullocks flameEach year, to soothe the tearless kingWho holds huge Geryon's triple frameAnd Tityos in his watery ring,That circling flood, which all must stem,Who eat the fruits that Nature yields,Wearers of haughtiest diadem,Or humblest tillers of the fields.In vain we shun war's contact redOr storm-tost spray of Hadrian main:In vain, the season through, we dreadFor our frail lives Scirocco's bane.Cocytus' black and stagnant oozeMust welcome you, and Danaus' seedIll-famed, and ancient SisyphusTo never-ending toil decreed.Your land, your house, your lovely brideMust lose you; of your cherish'd treesNone to its fleeting master's sideWill cleave, but those sad cypresses.Your heir, a larger soul, will drainThe hundred-padlock'd Caecuban,And richer spilth the pavement stainThan e'er at pontiff's supper ran.
Few roods of ground the piles we raiseWill leave to plough; ponds wider spreadThan Lucrine lake will meet the gazeOn every side; the plane unwedWill top the elm; the violet-bed,The myrtle, each delicious sweet,On olive-grounds their scent will shed,Where once were fruit-trees yielding meat;Thick bays will screen the midday rangeOf fiercest suns. Not such the ruleOf Romulus, and Cato sage,And all the bearded, good old school.Each Roman's wealth was little worth,His country's much; no colonnadeFor private pleasance wooed the NorthWith cool "prolixity of shade."None might the casual sod disdainTo roof his home; a town alone,At public charge, a sacred faneWere honour'd with the pomp of stone.
For ease, in wide Aegean caught,The sailor prays, when clouds are hidingThe moon, nor shines of starlight aughtFor seaman's guiding:For ease the Mede, with quiver gay:For ease rude Thrace, in battle cruel:Can purple buy it, Grosphus? Nay,Nor gold, nor jewel.No pomp, no lictor clears the way'Mid rabble-routs of troublous feelings,Nor quells the cares that sport and playRound gilded ceilings.More happy he whose modest boardHis father's well-worn silver brightens;No fear, nor lust for sordid hoard,His light sleep frightens.Why bend our bows of little span?Why change our homes for regions underAnother sun? What exiled manFrom self can sunder?Care climbs the bark, and trims the sail,Curst fiend! nor troops of horse can 'scape her,More swift than stag, more swift than galeThat drives the vapour.Blest in the present, look not forthOn ills beyond, but soothe each bitterWith slow, calm smile. No suns on earthUnclouded glitter.Achilles' light was quench'd at noon;A long decay Tithonus minish'd;My hours, it may be, yet will runWhen yours are finish'd.For you Sicilian heifers low,Bleat countless flocks; for you are neighingProud coursers; Afric purples glowFor your arrayingWith double dyes; a small domain,The soul that breathed in Grecian harping,My portion these; and high disdainOf ribald carping.
Why rend my heart with that sad sigh?It cannot please the gods or meThat you, Maecenas, first should die,My pillar of prosperity.Ah! should I lose one half my soulUntimely, can the other stayBehind it? Life that is not whole,Is THAT as sweet? The self-same dayShall crush us twain; no idle oathHas Horace sworn; whene'er you go,We both will travel, travel bothThe last dark journey down below.No, not Chimaera's fiery breath,Nor Gyas, could he rise again,Shall part us; Justice, strong as death,So wills it; so the Fates ordain.Whether 'twas Libra saw me bornOr angry Scorpio, lord malignOf natal hour, or Capricorn,The tyrant of the western brine,Our planets sure with concord strangeAre blended. You by Jove's blest powerWere snatch'd from out the baleful rangeOf Saturn, and the evil hourWas stay'd, when rapturous benches fullThree times the auspicious thunder peal'd;Me the curst trunk, that smote my skull,Had slain; but Faunus, strong to shieldThe friends of Mercury, check'd the blowIn mid descent. Be sure to payThe victims and the fane you owe;Your bard a humbler lamb will slay.
Carven ivory have I none;No golden cornice in my dwelling shines;Pillars choice of Libyan stoneUpbear no architrave from Attic mines;'Twas not mine to enter inTo Attalus' broad realms, an unknown heir,Nor for me fair clients spinLaconian purples for their patron's wear.Truth is mine, and Genius mine;The rich man comes, and knocks at my low door:Favour'd thus, I ne'er repine,Nor weary out indulgent Heaven for more:In my Sabine homestead blest,Why should I further tax a generous friend?Suns are hurrying suns a-west,And newborn moons make speed to meet their end.You have hands to square and hewVast marble-blocks, hard on your day of doom,Ever building mansions new,Nor thinking of the mansion of the tomb.Now you press on ocean's bound,Where waves on Baiae beat, as earth were scant;Now absorb your neighbour's ground,And tear his landmarks up, your own to plant.Hedges set round clients' farmsYour avarice tramples; see, the outcasts fly,Wife and husband, in their armsTheir fathers' gods, their squalid family.Yet no hall that wealth e'er plann'dWaits you more surely than the wider roomTraced by Death's yet greedier hand.Why strain so far? you cannot leap the tomb.Earth removes the impartial sodAlike for beggar and for monarch's child:Nor the slave of Hell's dark godConvey'd Prometheus back, with bribe beguiled.Pelops he and Pelops' sireHolds, spite of pride, in close captivity;Beggars, who of labour tire,Call'd or uncall'd, he hears and sets them free.
Bacchus I saw in mountain gladesRetired (believe it, after years!)Teaching his strains to Dryad maids,While goat-hoof'd satyrs prick'd their ears.Evoe! my eyes with terror glare;My heart is revelling with the god;'Tis madness! Evoe! spare, O spare,Dread wielder of the ivied rod!Yes, I may sing the Thyiad crew,The stream of wine, the sparkling rillsThat run with milk, and honey-dewThat from the hollow trunk distils;And I may sing thy consort's crown,New set in heaven, and Pentheus' hallWith ruthless ruin thundering down,And proud Lycurgus' funeral.Thou turn'st the rivers, thou the sea;Thou, on far summits, moist with wine,Thy Bacchants' tresses harmlesslyDost knot with living serpent-twine.Thou, when the giants, threatening wrack,Were clambering up Jove's citadel,Didst hurl o'erweening Rhoetus back,In tooth and claw a lion fell.Who knew thy feats in dance and playDeem'd thee belike for war's rough gameUnmeet: but peace and battle-frayFound thee, their centre, still the same.Grim Cerberus wagg'd his tail to seeThy golden horn, nor dream'd of wrong,But gently fawning, follow'd thee,And lick'd thy feet with triple tongue.
No vulgar wing, nor weakly plied,Shall bear me through the liquid sky;A two-form'd bard, no more to bideWithin the range of envy's eye'Mid haunts of men. I, all ungracedBy gentle blood, I, whom you callYour friend, Maecenas, shall not tasteOf death, nor chafe in Lethe's thrall.E'en now a rougher skin expandsAlong my legs: above I changeTo a white bird; and o'er my handsAnd shoulders grows a plumage strange:Fleeter than Icarus, see me floatO'er Bosporus, singing as I go,And o'er Gastulian sands remote,And Hyperborean fields of snow;By Dacian horde, that masks its fearOf Marsic steel, shall I be known,And furthest Scythian: Spain shall hearMy warbling, and the banks of Rhone.No dirges for my fancied death;No weak lament, no mournful stave;All clamorous grief were waste of breath,And vain the tribute of o grave.
I bid the unhallow'd crowd avaunt!Keep holy silence; strains unknownTill now, the Muses' hierophant,I sing to youths and maids alone.Kings o'er their flocks the sceptre wield;E'en kings beneath Jove's sceptre bow:Victor in giant battle-field,He moves all nature with his brow.This man his planted walks extendsBeyond his peers; an older nameOne to the people's choice commends;One boasts a more unsullied fame;One plumes him on a larger crowdOf clients. What are great or small?Death takes the mean man with the proud;The fatal urn has room for all.When guilty Pomp the drawn sword seesHung o'er her, richest feasts in vainStrain their sweet juice her taste to please;No lutes, no singing birds againWill bring her sleep. Sleep knows no pride;It scorns not cots of village hinds,Nor shadow-trembling river-side,Nor Tempe, stirr'd by western winds.Who, having competence, has all,The tumult of the sea defies,Nor fears Arcturus' angry fall,Nor fears the Kid-star's sullen rise,Though hail-storms on the vineyard beat,Though crops deceive, though trees complain,One while of showers, one while of heat,One while of winter's barbarous reign.Fish feel the narrowing of the mainFrom sunken piles, while on the strandContractors with their busy trainLet down huge stones, and lords of landAffect the sea: but fierce AlarmCan clamber to the master's side:Black Cares can up the galley swarm,And close behind the horseman ride.If Phrygian marbles soothe not pain,Nor star-bright purple's costliest wear,Nor vines of true Falernian strain,Nor Achaemenian spices rare,Why with rich gate and pillar'd rangeUpbuild new mansions, twice as high,Or why my Sabine vale exchangeFor more laborious luxury?
To suffer hardness with good cheer,In sternest school of warfare bred,Our youth should learn; let steed and spearMake him one day the Parthian's dread;Cold skies, keen perils, brace his life.Methinks I see from rampired townSome battling tyrant's matron wife,Some maiden, look in terror down,—"Ah, my dear lord, untrain'd in war!O tempt not the infuriate moodOf that fell lion! see! from farHe plunges through a tide of blood!"What joy, for fatherland to die!Death's darts e'en flying feet o'ertake,Nor spare a recreant chivalry,A back that cowers, or loins that quake.True Virtue never knows defeat:HER robes she keeps unsullied still,Nor takes, nor quits, HER curule seatTo please a people's veering will.True Virtue opens heaven to worth:She makes the way she does not find:The vulgar crowd, the humid earth,Her soaring pinion leaves behind.Seal'd lips have blessings sure to come:Who drags Eleusis' rite to day,That man shall never share my home,Or join my voyage: roofs give wayAnd boats are wreck'd: true men and thievesNeglected Justice oft confounds:Though Vengeance halt, she seldom leavesThe wretch whose flying steps she hounds.
The man of firm and righteous will,No rabble, clamorous for the wrong,No tyrant's brow, whose frown may kill,Can shake the strength that makes him strong:Not winds, that chafe the sea they sway,Nor Jove's right hand, with lightning red:Should Nature's pillar'd frame give way,That wreck would strike one fearless head.Pollux and roving HerculesThus won their way to Heaven's proud steep,'Mid whom Augustus, couch'd at ease,Dyes his red lips with nectar deep.For this, great Bacchus, tigers drewThy glorious car, untaught to slaveIn harness: thus Quirinus flewOn Mars' wing'd steeds from Acheron's wave,When Juno spoke with Heaven's assent:"O Ilium, Ilium, wretched town!The judge accurst, incontinent,And stranger dame have dragg'd thee down.Pallas and I, since Priam's sireDenied the gods his pledged reward,Had doom'd them all to sword and fire,The people and their perjured lord.No more the adulterous guest can charmThe Spartan queen: the house forswornNo more repels by Hector's armMy warriors, baffled and outworn:Hush'd is the war our strife made long:I welcome now, my hatred o'er,A grandson in the child of wrong,Him whom the Trojan priestess bore.Receive him, Mars! the gates of flameMay open: let him taste forgivenThe nectar, and enrol his nameAmong the peaceful ranks of Heaven.Let the wide waters sever stillIlium and Rome, the exiled raceMay reign and prosper where they will:So but in Paris' burial-placeThe cattle sport, the wild beasts hideTheir cubs, the Capitol may standAll bright, and Rome in warlike prideO'er Media stretch a conqueror's hand.Aye, let her scatter far and wideHer terror, where the land-lock'd wavesEurope from Afric's shore divide,Where swelling Nile the corn-field laves—Of strength more potent to disdainHid gold, best buried in the mine,Than gather it with hand profane,That for man's greed would rob a shrine.Whate'er the bound to earth ordain'd,There let her reach the arm of power,Travelling, where raves the fire unrein'd,And where the storm-cloud and the shower.Yet, warlike Roman, know thy doom,Nor, drunken with a conqueror's joy,Or blind with duteous zeal, presumeTo build again ancestral Troy.Should Troy revive to hateful life,Her star again should set in gore,While I, Jove's sister and his wife,To victory led my host once more.Though Phoebus thrice in brazen mailShould case her towers, they thrice should fall,Storm'd by my Greeks: thrice wives should wailHusband and son, themselves in thrall."—Such thunders from the lyre of love!Back, wayward Muse! refrain, refrainTo tell the talk of gods above,And dwarf high themes in puny strain.
Come down, Calliope, from above:Breathe on the pipe a strain of fire;Or if a graver note thou love,With Phoebus' cittern and his lyre.You hear her? or is this the playOf fond illusion? Hark! meseemsThrough gardens of the good I stray,'Mid murmuring gales and purling streams.Me, as I lay on Vultur's steep,A truant past Apulia's bound,O'ertired, poor child, with play and sleep,With living green the stock-doves crown'd—A legend, nay, a miracle,By Acherontia's nestlings told,By all in Bantine glade that dwell,Or till the rich Forentan mould."Bears, vipers, spared him as he lay,The sacred garland deck'd his hair,The myrtle blended with the bay:The child's inspired: the gods were there."Your grace, sweet Muses, shields me stillOn Sabine heights, or lets me rangeWhere cool Praeneste, Tibur's hill,Or liquid Baiae proffers change.Me to your springs, your dances true,Philippi bore not to the ground,Nor the doom'd tree in falling slew,Nor billowy Palinurus drown'd.Grant me your presence, blithe and fainMad Bosporus shall my bark explore;My foot shall tread the sandy plainThat glows beside Assyria's shore;'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe,And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood,And quiver'd Scythians, will I goUnharm'd, and look on Tanais' flood.When Caesar's self in peaceful townThe weary veteran's home has made,You bid him lay his helmet downAnd rest in your Pierian shade.Mild thoughts you plant, and joy to seeMild thoughts take root. The nations knowHow with descending thunder HeThe impious Titans hurl'd below,Who rules dull earth and stormy seas,And towns of men, and realms of pain,And gods, and mortal companies,Alone, impartial in his reign.Yet Jove had fear'd the giant rush,Their upraised arms, their port of pride,And the twin brethren bent to pushHuge Pelion up Olympus' side.But Typhon, Mimas, what could these,Or what Porphyrion's stalwart scorn,Rhoetus, or he whose spears were trees,Enceladus, from earth uptorn,As on they rush'd in mad career'Gainst Pallas' shield? Here met the foeFierce Vulcan, queenly Juno here,And he who ne'er shall quit his bow,Who laves in clear Castalian floodHis locks, and loves the leafy growthOf Lycia next his native wood,The Delian and the Pataran both.Strength, mindless, falls by its own weight;Strength, mix'd with mind, is made more strongBy the just gods, who surely hateThe strength whose thoughts are set on wrong.Let hundred-handed Gyas bearHis witness, and Orion knownTempter of Dian, chaste and fair,By Dian's maiden dart o'erthrown.Hurl'd on the monstrous shapes she bred,Earth groans, and mourns her children thrustTo Orcus; Aetna's weight of leadKeeps down the fire that breaks its crust;Still sits the bird on Tityos' breast,The warder of unlawful love;Still suffers lewd Pirithous, prestBy massive chains no hand may move.