Chapter 3

I.

ODI PROFANUM.

I bid the unhallow'd crowd avaunt! Keep holy silence; strains unknown Till 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 extends Beyond his peers; an older name One to the people's choice commends; One boasts a more unsullied fame; One plumes him on a larger crowd Of 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 sees Hung o'er her, richest feasts in vain Strain their sweet juice her taste to please; No lutes, no singing birds again Will 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 main From sunken piles, while on the strand Contractors with their busy train Let down huge stones, and lords of land Affect the sea: but fierce Alarm Can 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 range Upbuild new mansions, twice as high, Or why my Sabine vale exchange For more laborious luxury?

II.

ANGUSTAM AMICE.

To suffer hardness with good cheer, In sternest school of warfare bred, Our youth should learn; let steed and spear Make him one day the Parthian's dread; Cold skies, keen perils, brace his life. Methinks I see from rampired town Some battling tyrant's matron wife, Some maiden, look in terror down,-- "Ah, my dear lord, untrain'd in war! O tempt not the infuriate mood Of that fell lion! see! from far He 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 seat To 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 way And boats are wreck'd: true men and thieves Neglected Justice oft confounds: Though Vengeance halt, she seldom leaves The wretch whose flying steps she hounds.

III.

JUSTUM ET TENACEM.

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 Hercules Thus 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 drew Thy glorious car, untaught to slave In harness: thus Quirinus flew On 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 sire Denied 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 charm The Spartan queen: the house forsworn No more repels by Hector's arm My 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 flame May open: let him taste forgiven The nectar, and enrol his name Among the peaceful ranks of Heaven. Let the wide waters sever still Ilium and Rome, the exiled race May reign and prosper where they will: So but in Paris' burial-place The cattle sport, the wild beasts hide Their cubs, the Capitol may stand All bright, and Rome in warlike pride O'er Media stretch a conqueror's hand. Aye, let her scatter far and wide Her terror, where the land-lock'd waves Europe from Afric's shore divide, Where swelling Nile the corn-field laves-- Of strength more potent to disdain Hid 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, presume To 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 mail Should case her towers, they thrice should fall, Storm'd by my Greeks: thrice wives should wail Husband and son, themselves in thrall." --Such thunders from the lyre of love! Back, wayward Muse! refrain, refrain To tell the talk of gods above, And dwarf high themes in puny strain.

IV.

DESCENDE CAELO.

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 play Of fond illusion? Hark! meseems Through 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 still On Sabine heights, or lets me range Where 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 fain Mad Bosporus shall my bark explore; My foot shall tread the sandy plain That glows beside Assyria's shore; 'Mid Briton tribes, the stranger's foe, And Spaniards, drunk with horses' blood, And quiver'd Scythians, will I go Unharm'd, and look on Tanais' flood. When Caesar's self in peaceful town The weary veteran's home has made, You bid him lay his helmet down And rest in your Pierian shade. Mild thoughts you plant, and joy to see Mild thoughts take root. The nations know How with descending thunder He The 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 push Huge 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 foe Fierce Vulcan, queenly Juno here, And he who ne'er shall quit his bow, Who laves in clear Castalian flood His locks, and loves the leafy growth Of 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 strong By the just gods, who surely hate The strength whose thoughts are set on wrong. Let hundred-handed Gyas bear His witness, and Orion known Tempter 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 thrust To Orcus; Aetna's weight of lead Keeps down the fire that breaks its crust; Still sits the bird on Tityos' breast, The warder of unlawful love; Still suffers lewd Pirithous, prest By massive chains no hand may move.

V.

CAELO TONANTEM.

Jove rules in heaven, his thunder shows; Henceforth Augustus earth shall own Her present god, now Briton foes And Persians bow before his throne. Has Crassus' soldier ta'en to wife A base barbarian, and grown grey (Woe, for a nation's tainted life!) Earning his foemen-kinsmen's pay, His king, forsooth, a Mede, his sire A 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 disgrace Of peace, whose precedent would draw Destruction on an unborn race, Should aught but death the prisoner's chain Unrivet. "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 seen Free 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 heap On baseness loss. The hues of old Revisit not the wool we steep; And genuine worth, expell'd by fear, Returns not to the worthless slave. Break but her meshes, will the deer Assail you? then will he be brave Who 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 pride Stern on the ground his visage placed. With counsel thus ne'er else aread He nerved the fathers' weak intent, And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, sped Into illustrious banishment. Well witting what the torturer's art Design'd him, with like unconcern The press of kin he push'd apart And crowds encumbering his return, As though, some tedious business o'er Of clients' court, his journey lay Towards Venafrum's grassy floor, Or Sparta-built Tarentum's bay.

VI.

DELICTA MAJORUM.

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'erflow The measure of Italian ill. Now Pacorus and Monaeses twice Have 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, those For archer-prowess rather praised. An evil age erewhile debased The marriage-bed, the race, the home; Thence rose the flood whose waters waste The nation and the name of Rome. Not such their birth, who stain'd for us The 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 till With Sabine spade, then shoulder wood Hewn at a stern old mother's will, When sunset lengthen'd from each height The shadows, and unyoked the steer, Restoring in its westward flight The hour to toilworn travail dear. What has not cankering Time made worse? Viler than grandsires, sires beget Ourselves, yet baser, soon to curse The world with offspring baser yet.

VII.

QUID FLES, ASTERIE.

Why weep for him whom sweet Favonian airs Will waft next spring, Asteria, back to you, Rich with Bithynia's wares, A lover fond and true, Your Gyges? He, detain'd by stormy stress At Oricum, about the Goat-star's rise, Cold, wakeful, comfortless, The long night weeping lies. Meantime his lovesick hostess' messenger Talks 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 breath Once on a time on trustful Proetus won To doom to early death Too chaste Bellerophon; Warns him of Peleus' peril, all but slain For virtuous scorn of fair Hippolyta, And tells again each tale That e'er led heart astray. In vain; for deafer than Icarian seas He hears, untainted yet. But, lady fair, What if Enipeus please Your listless eye? beware! Though true it be that none with surer seat O'er Mars's grassy turf is seen to ride, Nor any swims so fleet Adown 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.

VIII.

MARTIIS COELEBS.

The first of March! a man unwed! What can these flowers, this censer mean Or what these embers, glowing red On 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'd By falling tree. So, when that holyday comes round, It sees me still the rosin clear From this my wine-jar, first embrown'd In Tullus' year. Come, crush one hundred cups for life Preserved, Maecenas; keep till day The candles lit; let noise and strife Be 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 bow And 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.

IX.

DONEC GRATUS ERAM.

HORACE. While I had power to bless you, Nor any round that neck his arms did fling More privileged to caress you, Happier was Horace than the Persian king.

LYDIA. While you for none were pining Sorer, 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 returning Should 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.

X.

EXTREMUM TANAIN.

Ah Lyce! though your drink were Tanais, Your husband some rude savage, you would weep To leave me shivering, on a night like this, Where storms their watches keep. Hark! how your door is creaking! how the grove In your fair court-yard, while the wild winds blow, Wails in accord! with what transparence Jove Is 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 begot Penelope 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 brook Rain-water and cold stones.

XI.

MERCURI, NAM TE.

Come, Mercury, by whose minstrel spell Amphion raised the Theban stones, Come, with thy seven sweet strings, my shell, Thy "diverse tones," Nor vocal once nor pleasant, now To rich man's board and temple dear: Put forth thy power, till Lyde bow Her 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 call Have follow'd: thou canst rivers stay: The monstrous guard of Pluto's hall To thee gave way, Grim Cerberus, round whose Gorgon head A hundred snakes are hissing death, Whose triple jaws black venom shed, And sickening breath. Ixion too and Tityos smooth'd Their rugged brows: the urn stood dry One hour, while Danaus' maids were sooth'd With minstrelsy. Let Lyde hear those maidens' guilt, Their famous doom, the ceaseless drain Of outpour'd water, ever spilt, And all the pain Reserved for sinners, e'en when dead: Those impious hands, (could crime do more?) Those impious hands had hearts to shed Their bridegrooms' gore! One only, true to Hymen's flame, Was traitress to her sire forsworn: That splendid falsehood lights her name Through 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 hard Than these, will slay you not, poor friend, Nor hold in ward: Me let my sire in fetters lay For 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; go Be blest: and on my tomb engrave This tale of woe."

XII.

MISERARUM EST.

How unhappy are the maidens who with Cupid may not play, Who may never touch the wine-cup, but must tremble all the day At 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.

XIII.

O FONS BANDUSIAE.

Bandusia's fount, in clearness crystalline, O worthy of the wine, the flowers we vow! To-morrow shall be thine A kid, whose crescent brow Is 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 yield To ox with ploughing tired, And lazy sheep afield. Thou too one day shalt win proud eminence 'Mid honour'd founts, while I the ilex sing Crowning the cavern, whence Thy babbling wavelets spring.

XIV.

HERCULIS RITU.

Our Hercules, they told us, Rome, Had sought the laurel Death bestows: Now Glory brings him conqueror home From Spaniard foes. Proud of her spouse, the imperial fair Must thank the gods that shield from death; His sister too:--let matrons wear The suppliant wreath For daughters and for sons restored: Ye youths and damsels newly wed, Let decent awe restrain each word Best left unsaid. This day, true holyday to me, Shall banish care: I will not fear Rude 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 spared A 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!

XV.

UXOR PAUPERIS IBYCI.

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 grows By fair Luceria, not the merry lute: Flowers beseem not wither'd brows, Nor wither'd lips with emptied wine-jars suit.

XVI.

INCLUSAM DANAEN.

Full well had Danae been secured, in truth, By oaken portals, and a brazen tower, And savage watch-dogs, from the roving youth That prowl at midnight's hour: But Jove and Venus mock'd with gay disdain The jealous warder of that close stronghold: The way, they knew, must soon be smooth and plain When gods could change to gold. Gold, gold can pass the tyrant's sentinel, Can shiver rocks with more resistless blow Than is the thunder's. Argos' prophet fell, He and his house laid low, And all for gain. The man of Macedon Cleft gates of cities, rival kings o'erthrew By force of gifts: their cunning snares have won Rude captains and their crew. As riches grow, care follows: men repine And 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 more From bounteous Heaven. I strip me of my pride, Desert the rich man's standard, and pass o'er To bare Contentment's side, More proud as lord of what the great despise Than if the wheat thresh'd on Apulia's floor I hoarded all in my huge granaries, 'Mid vast possessions poor. A clear fresh stream, a little field o'ergrown With shady trees, a crop that ne'er deceives, Pass, though men know it not, their wealth, that own All Afric's golden sheaves. Though no Calabrian bees their honey yield For me, nor mellowing sleeps the god of wine In Formian jar, nor in Gaul's pasture-field The 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 increase My tiny revenues, Than if to Alyattes' wide domains I join'd the realms of Mygdon. Great desires Sort with great wants. 'Tis best, when prayer obtains No more than life requires.

XVII.

AELI VETUSTO.

Aelius, of Lamus' ancient name (For since from that high parentage The prehistoric Lamias came And 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 swim Where green Marica skirts the sea, Lord of broad realms), an eastern gale Will blow to-morrow, and bestrew The 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 gay With smoking pig and streaming wine, And lord and slave keep holyday.

XVIII.

FAUNE, NYMPHARUM.

O wont the flying Nymphs to woo, Good Faunus, through my sunny farm Pass gently, gently pass, nor do My younglings harm. Each year, thou know'st, a kid must die For thee; nor lacks the wine's full stream To Venus' mate, the bowl; and high The 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.

XIX.

QUANTUM DISTAT.

What the time from Inachus To 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 host To give us house-room,--this you will not say. Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wine To 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 fire Of 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.

XXI.

O NATE MECUM.

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 produce A mellower wine, and I obey. Though steep'd in all Socratic lore He will not slight you; do not fear. They say old Cato o'er and o'er With wine his honest heart would cheer. Tough wits to your mild torture yield Their treasures; you unlock the soul Of 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 flow Till stars before the sunrise flit.

XXII.

MONTIUM CUSTOS.

Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid, Who to young wives in childbirth's hour Thrice 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 design The side-long wound.

XXIII.

COELO SUPINAS.

If, Phidyle, your hands you lift To heaven, as each new moon is born, Soothing your Lares with the gift Of slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn, Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane assail Your vines, nor mildew blast your wheat, Ne'er shall your tender younglings fail In autumn, when the fruits are sweet. The destined victim 'mid the snows Of Algidus in oakwoods fed, Or where the Alban herbage grows, Shall dye the pontiff's axes red; No need of butcher'd sheep for you To 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.

XXIV.

INTACTIS OPULENTIOR.

Though your buried wealth surpass The unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby, Though with many a ponderous mass You crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea, Let Necessity but drive Her wedge of adamant into that proud head, Vainly battling will you strive To '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 hand From guilty plots, from blood of orphans clean; There no dowried wives command Their 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 head To 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 avail Unless sharp justice kill the taint of sin? What can laws, that needs must fail Shorn of the aid of manners form'd within, If the merchant turns not back From the fierce heats that round the tropic glow, Turns not from the regions black With 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 main Receive 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 time This baleful lust, and crush it in the bud. Ours to mould our weakling sons To nobler sentiment and manlier deed: Now the noble's first-born shuns The 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.

XXV.

QUO ME, BACCHE.

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 praise And 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 admire The banks, the desolate forests. O great King Who 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 sweet Thee to follow, God of wine, Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!

XXVI.

VIXI PUELLIS.

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 sea Stands 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!

XXVII.

IMPIOS PARRAE.

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 crow Still leave you free. But mark with what a front of fear Orion lowers. Ah! well I know How Hadria glooms, how falsely clear The west-winds blow. Let foemen's wives and children feel The gathering south-wind's angry roar, The black wave's crash, the thunder-peal, The quivering shore. So to the bull Europa gave Her beauteous form, and when she saw The 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 nought But stars and seas. Then, as in hundred-citied Crete She landed,--"O my sire!" she said, "O childly duty! passion's heat Has struck thee dead. Whence came I? death, for maiden's shame, Were little. Do I wake to weep My sin? or am I pure of blame, And is it sleep From dreamland brings a form to trick My senses? Which was best? to go Over the long, long waves, or pick The flowers in blow? O, were that monster made my prize, How would I strive to wound that brow, How tear those horns, my frantic eyes Adored but now! Shameless I left my father's home; Shameless I cheat the expectant grave; O heaven, that naked I might roam In lions' cave! Now, ere decay my bloom devour Or 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 ask The wind to bear you. Would you like The bondmaid's task, You, child of kings, a master's toy, A mistress' slave?'" Beside her, lo! Stood Venus smiling, and her boy With unstrung bow. Then, when her laughter ceased, "Have done With fume and fret," she cried, "my fair; That odious bull will give you soon His horns to tear. You know not you are Jove's own dame: Away with sobbing; be resign'd To greatness: you shall give your name To half mankind."

XXVIII.

FESTO QUID POTIUS.

Neptune's feast-day! what should man Think 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 pull Old Bibulus' wine-jar from its sleepy vault. I will take my turn and sing Neptune and Nereus' train with locks of green; You shall warble to the string Latona and her Cynthia's arrowy sheen. Hers our latest song, who sways Cnidos and Cyclads, and to Paphos goes With her swans, on holydays; Night too shall claim the homage music owes.

XXIX.

TYRRHENA REGUM.

Heir of Tyrrhenian kings, for you A 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 hill Of Telegon the parricide. O leave that pomp that can but tire, Those piles, among the clouds at home; Cease for a moment to admire The 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 sheep Seeks out the streamlet and the trees, Silvanus' lair: the still banks sleep Untroubled 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 be Heaven wisely hides in blackest night, And laughs, should man's anxiety Transgress the bounds of man's short sight. Control the present: all beside Flows 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 wood Reverberate to the enormous shock, When savage rains the tranquil flood Have stirr'd to madness. Happy he, Self-centred, who each night can say, "My life is lived: the morn may see A 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 shake Those wings, her presents I resign, Cloak me in native worth, and take Chaste Poverty undower'd for mine. Though storms around my vessel rave, I will not fall to craven prayers, Nor bargain by my vows to save My Cyprian and Sidonian wares, Else added to the insatiate main. Then through the wild Aegean roar The breezes and the Brethren Twain Shall waft my little boat ashore.

XXX.

EXEGI MONUMENTUM.

And now 'tis done: more durable than brass My monument shall be, and raise its head O'er royal pyramids: it shall not dread Corroding rain or angry Boreas, Nor the long lapse of immemorial time. I shall not wholly die: large residue Shall 'scape the queen of funerals. Ever new My after fame shall grow, while pontiffs climb With silent maids the Capitolian height. "Born," men will say, "where Aufidus is loud, Where Daunus, scant of streams, beneath him bow'd The rustic tribes, from dimness he wax'd bright, First of his race to wed the Aeolian lay To notes of Italy." Put glory on, My own Melpomene, by genius won, And crown me of thy grace with Delphic bay.