Book 1

Maecenas, born of monarch ancestors,

The shield at once and glory of my life!

There are who joy them in the Olympic strife

And love the dust they gather in the course;

The goal by hot wheels shunn'd, the famous prize,

Exalt them to the gods that rule mankind;

This joys, if rabbles fickle as the wind

Through triple grade of honours bid him rise,

That, if his granary has stored away

Of Libya 's thousand floors the yield entire;

The man who digs his field as did his sire,

With honest pride, no Attalus may sway

By proffer'd wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,

The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark.

The winds that make Icarian billows dark

The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease

Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed

Of penury, he refits his batter'd craft.

There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,

Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,

Now stretch'd beneath the arbute on the sward,

Now by some gentle river's sacred spring;

Some love the camp, the clarion's joyous ring,

And battle, by the mother's soul abhorr'd.

See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,

The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,

Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,

Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare.

To me the artist's meed, the ivy wreath

Is very heaven: me the sweet cool of woods,

Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes

From rabble rout, so but Euterpe's breath

Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly

Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre.

O, write my name among that minstrel choir,

And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!

Enough of snow and hail at last

The sire has sent in vengeance down:

His bolts, at his own temple cast,

Appall'd the town,

Appall'd the lands, lest Pyrrha 's time

Return, with all its monstrous sights,

When Proteus led his flocks to climb

The flatten'd heights,

When fish were in the elm-tops caught,

Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,

And does were floating, all distraught,

Adown the tide.

Old Tiber, hurl'd in tumult back

From mingling with the Etruscan main,

Has threaten'd Numa's court with wrack

And Vesta's fane.

Roused by his Ilia 's plaintive woes,

He vows revenge for guiltless blood,

And, spite of Jove, his banks o'erflows,

Uxorious flood.

Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel

That better Persian lives had spilt,

To youths, whose minish'd numbers feel

Their parents' guilt.

What god shall Rome invoke to stay

Her fall? Can suppliance overbear

The ear of Vesta, turn'd away

From chant and prayer?

Who comes, commission'd to atone

For crime like ours? at length appear,

A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown,

Apollo seer!

Or Venus, laughter-loving dame,

Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly;

Or thou, if slighted sons may claim

A parent's eye,

O weary with thy long, long game,

Who lov'st fierce shouts and helmets bright,

And Moorish warrior's glance of flame

Or e'er he smite!

Or Maia 's son, if now awhile

In youthful guise we see thee here,

Caesar's avenger—such the style

Thou deign'st to bear;

Late be thy journey home, and long

Thy sojourn with Rome 's family;

Nor let thy wrath at our great wrong

Lend wings to fly.

Here take our homage, Chief and Sire;

Here wreathe with bay thy conquering brow,

And bid the prancing Mede retire,

Our Caesar thou!

Thus may Cyprus ' heavenly queen,

Thus Helen's brethren, stars of brightest sheen,

Guide thee! May the sire of wind

Each truant gale, save only Zephyr, bind!

So do thou, fair ship, that ow'st

Virgil, thy precious freight, to Attic coast,

Safe restore thy loan and whole,

And save from death the partner of my soul!

Oak and brass of triple fold

Encompass'd sure that heart, which first made bold

To the raging sea to trust

A fragile bark, nor fear'd the Afric gust

With its Northern mates at strife,

Nor Hyads' frown, nor South-wind fury-rife,

Mightiest power that Hadria knows,

Wills he the waves to madden or compose.

What had Death in store to awe

Those eyes, that huge sea-beasts unmelting saw,

Saw the swelling of the surge,

And high Ceraunian cliffs, the seaman's scourge?

Heaven's high providence in vain

Has sever'd countries with the estranging main,

If our vessels ne'ertheless

With reckless plunge that sacred bar transgress.

Daring all, their goal to win,

Men tread forbidden ground, and rush on sin:

Daring all, Prometheus play'd

His wily game, and fire to man convey'd;

Soon as fire was stolen away,

Pale Fever's stranger host and wan Decay

Swept o'er earth's polluted face,

And slow Fate quicken'd Death's once halting pace.

Daedalus the void air tried

On wings, to humankind by Heaven denied;

Acheron 's bar gave way with ease

Before the arm of labouring Hercules.

Nought is there for man too high;

Our impious folly e'en would climb the sky,

Braves the dweller on the steep,

Nor lets the bolts of heavenly vengeance sleep.

The touch of Zephyr and of Spring has loosen'd Winter's thrall;

The well-dried keels are wheel'd again to sea:

The ploughman cares not for his fire, nor cattle for their stall,

And frost no more is whitening all the lea.

Now Cytherea leads the dance, the bright moon overhead;

The Graces and the Nymphs, together knit,

With rhythmic feet the meadow beat, while Vulcan, fiery red,

Heats the Cyclopian forge in Aetna 's pit.

'Tis now the time to wreathe the brow with branch of myrtle green,

Or flowers, just opening to the vernal breeze;

Now Faunus claims his sacrifice among the shady treen,

Lambkin or kidling, which soe'er he please.

Pale Death, impartial, walks his round: he knocks at cottage-gate

And palace-portal. Sestius, child of bliss!

How should a mortal's hopes be long, when short his being's date?

Lo here! the fabulous ghosts, the dark abyss,

The void of the Plutonian hall, where soon as e'er you go,

No more for you shall leap the auspicious die

To seat you on the throne of wine; no more your breast shall glow

For Lycidas, the star of every eye.

What slender youth, besprinkled with perfume,

Courts you on roses in some grotto's shade?

Fair Pyrrha, say, for whom

Your yellow hair you braid,

So trim, so simple! Ah! how oft shall he

Lament that faith can fail, that gods can change,

Viewing the rough black sea

With eyes to tempests strange,

Who now is basking in your golden smile,

And dreams of you still fancy-free, still kind,

Poor fool, nor knows the guile

Of the deceitful wind!

Woe to the eyes you dazzle without cloud

Untried! For me, they show in yonder fane

My dripping garments, vow'd

To Him who curbs the main.

Not I, but Varius:—he, of Homer's brood

A tuneful swan, shall bear you on his wing,

Your tale of trophies, won by field or flood,

Mighty alike to sing.

Not mine such themes, Agrippa; no, nor mine

To chant the Wrath that fill'd Pelides' breast,

Nor dark Ulysses' wanderings o'er the brine,

Nor Pelops' house unblest.

Vast were the task, I feeble; inborn shame,

And she, who makes the peaceful lyre submit,

Forbid me to impair great Caesar's fame

And yours by my weak wit.

But who may fitly sing of Mars array'd

In adamant mail, or Merion, black with dust

Of Troy, or Tydeus' son by Pallas ' aid

Strong against gods to thrust?

Feasts are my theme, my warriors maidens fair,

Who with pared nails encounter youths in fight;

Be Fancy free or caught in Cupid's snare,

Her temper still is light.

Let others Rhodes or Mytilene sing,

Or Ephesus, or Corinth, set between

Two seas, or Thebes, or Delphi, for its king

Each famous, or Thessalian Tempe green;

There are who make chaste Pallas' virgin tower

The daily burden of unending song,

And search for wreaths the olive's rifled bower:

The praise of Juno sounds from many a tongue,

Telling of Argos ' steeds, Mycenae 's gold.

For me stern Sparta forges no such spell,

No, nor Larissa's plain of richest mould,

As bright Albunea echoing from her cell.

O headlong Anio! O Tiburnian groves,

And orchards saturate with shifting streams!

Look how the clear fresh south from heaven removes

The tempest, nor with rain perpetual teems!

You too be wise, my Plancus: life's worst cloud

Will melt in air, by mellow wine allay'd,

Dwell you in camps, with glittering banners proud,

Or 'neath your Tibur 's canopy of shade.

When Teucer fled before his father's frown

From Salamis, they say his temples deep

He dipp'd in wine, then wreath'd with poplar crown,

And bade his comrades lay their grief to sleep:

“Where Fortune bears us, than my sire more kind,

There let us go, my own, my gallant crew.

'Tis Teucer leads, 'tis Teucer breathes the wind;

No more despair; Apollo's word is true.

Another Salamis in kindlier air

Shall yet arise. Hearts, that have borne with me

Worse buffets! drown today in wine your care;

To-morrow we recross the wide, wide sea!”

Lydia, by all above,

Why bear so hard on Sybaris, to ruin him with love?

What change has made him shun

The playing-ground, who once so well could bear the dust and sun?

Why does he never sit

On horseback in his company, nor with uneven bit

His Gallic courser tame?

Why dreads he yellow Tiber, as 'twould sully that fair frame?

Like poison loathes the oil,

His arms no longer black and blue with honourable toil,

He who erewhile was known

For quoit or javelin oft and oft beyond the limit thrown?

Why skulks he, as they say

Did Thetis' son before the dawn of Ilion 's fatal day,

For fear the manly dress

Should fling him into danger's arms, amid the

Lycian press?

See, how it stands, one pile of snow,

Soracte! 'neath the pressure yield

Its groaning woods; the torrents' flow

With clear sharp ice is all congeal'd.

Heap high the logs, and melt the cold,

Good Thaliarch; draw the wine we ask,

That mellower vintage, four-year-old,

From out the cellar'd Sabine cask.

The future trust with Jove; when he

Has still'd the warring tempests' roar

On the vex'd deep, the cypress-tree

And aged ash are rock'd no more.

O, ask not what the morn will bring,

But count as gain each day that chance

May give you; sport in life's young spring,

Nor scorn sweet love, nor merry dance,

While years are green, while sullen eld

Is distant. Now the walk, the game,

The whisper'd talk at sunset held,

Each in its hour, prefer their claim.

Sweet too the laugh, whose feign'd alarm

The hiding-place of beauty tells,

The token, ravish'd from the arm

Or finger, that but ill rebels.

Grandson of Atlas, wise of tongue,

O Mercury, whose wit could tame

Man's savage youth by power of song

And plastic game!

Thee sing I, herald of the sky,

Who gav'st the lyre its music sweet,

Hiding whate'er might please thine eye

In frolic cheat.

See, threatening thee, poor guileless child,

Apollo claims, in angry tone,

His cattle;—all at once he smiled,

His quiver gone.

Strong in thy guidance, Hector's sire

Escaped the Atridae, pass'd between

Thessalian tents and warders' fire,

Of all unseen,

Thou lay'st unspotted souls to rest;

Thy golden rod pale spectres know;

Blest power! by all thy brethren blest,

Above, below!

Ask not ('tis forbidden knowledge), what our destined term of years,

Mine and yours; nor scan the tables of your Babylonish seers.

Better far to bear the future, my Leuconoe, like the past,

Whether Jove has many winters yet to give, or this our last;

This, that makes the Tyrrhene billows spend their strength against the shore.

Strain your wine and prove your wisdom; life is short; should hope be more?

In the moment of our talking, envious time has ebb'd away.

Seize the present; trust tomorrow e'en as little as you may.

What man, what hero, Clio sweet,

On harp or flute wilt thou proclaim?

What god shall echo's voice repeat

In mocking game

To Helicon 's sequester'd shade,

Or Pindus, or on Haemus chill,

Where once the hurrying woods obey'd

The minstrel's will,

Who, by his mother's gift of song,

Held the fleet stream, the rapid breeze,

And led with blandishment along

The listening trees?

Whom praise we first? the sire on high,

Who gods and men unerring guides,

Who rules the sea, the earth, the sky,

Their times and tides.

No mightier birth may he beget;

No like, no second has he known;

Yet nearest to her sire's is set

Minerva 's throne.

Nor yet shall Bacchus pass unsaid,

Bold warrior, nor the virgin foe

Of savage beasts, nor Phoebus, dread

With deadly bow.

Alcides too shall be my theme,

And Leda's twins, for horses he,

He famed for boxing; soon as gleam

Their stars at sea,

The lash'd spray trickles from the steep,

The wind sinks down, the storm-cloud flies,

The threatening billow on the deep

Obedient lies.

Shall now Quirinus take his turn,

Or quiet Numa, or the state

Proud Tarquin held, or Cato stern,

By death made great?

Ay, Regulus and the Scaurian name,

And Paullus, who at Cannae gave

His glorious soul, fair record claim,

For all were brave.

Thee, Furius, and Fabricius, thee,

Rough Curius too, with untrimm'd beard,

Your sires' transmitted poverty

To conquest rear'd.

Marcellus ' fame, its up-growth hid,

Springs like a tree; great Julius ' light

Shines, like the radiant moon amid

The lamps of night.

Dread Sire and Guardian of man's race,

To thee, O Jove, the Fates assign

Our Caesar's charge; his power and place

Be next to thine.

Whether the Parthian, threatening Rome,

His eagles scatter to the wind.

Or follow to their eastern home

Cathay and Ind,

Thy second let him rule below

Thy car shall shake the realms above;

Thy vengeful bolts shall overthrow

Each guilty grove.

Telephus—you praise him still,

His waxen arms, his rosy-tinted neck;

Ah! and all the while I thrill

With jealous pangs I cannot, cannot check

See, my colour comes and goes,

My poor heart flutters, Lydia, and the dew,

Down my cheek soft stealing, shows

What lingering torments rack me through and through.

Oh, 'tis agony te see

Those snowwhite shoulders scarr'd in drunken fray,

Or those ruby lips, where he

Has left strange marks, that show how rough his play!

Never, never look to find

A faithful heart in him whose rage can harm

Sweetest lips, which Venus kind

Has tinctured with her quintessential charm.

Happy, happy; happy they

Whose living love, untroubled by all strife,

Binds them till the last sad day,

Nor parts asunder but with parting life!

O luckless bark! new waves will force you back

To sea. O, haste to make the haven yours!

E'en now, a helpless wrack,

You drift, despoil'd of oars;

The Afric gale has dealt your mast a wound;

Your sailyards groan, nor can your keel sustain,

Till lash'd with cables round,

A more imperious main.

Your canvass hangs in ribbons, rent and torn;

No gods are left to pray to in fresh need.

A pine of Pontus born

Of noble forest breed,

You boast your name and lineage—madly blind

Can painted timbers quell a seaman's fear?

Beware! or else the wind

Makes you its mock and jeer.

Your trouble late made sick this heart of mine,

And still I love you, still am ill at ease.

O, shun the sea, where shine

The thick-sown Cyclades!

When the false swain was hurrying o'er the deep

His Spartan hostess in the Idaean bark,

Old Nereus laid the unwilling winds asleep,

That all to Fate might hark,

Speaking through him:—“Home in ill hour you take

A prize whom Greece shall claim with troops untold,

Leagued by an oath your marriage tie to break

And Priam's kingdom old.

Alas! what deaths you launch on Dardan realm!

What tolls are waiting, man and horse to tire!

See! Pallas trims her aegis and her helm,

Her chariot and her ire.

Vainly shall you; in Venus' favour strong,

Your tresses comb, and for your dames divide

On peaceful lyre the several parts of song;

Vainly in chamber hide

From spears and Gnossian arrows, barb'd with fate,

And battle's din, and Ajax in the chase

Unconquer'd; those adulterous locks, though late,

Shall gory dust deface.

Hark! 'tis the death-cry of your race! look back!

Ulysses comes, and Pylian Nestor grey;

See! Salaminian Teucer on your track,

And Sthenelus, in the fray

Versed, or with whip and rein, should need require,

No laggard. Merion too your eyes shall know

From far. Tydides, fiercer than his sire,

Pursues you, all aglow;

Him, as the stag forgets to graze for fright,

Seeing the wolf at distance in the glade,

And flies, high panting, you shall fly, despite

Boasts to your leman made.

What though Achilles' wrathful fleet postpone

The day of doom to Troy and Troy 's proud dames,

Her towers shall fall, the number'd winters flown,

Wrapp'd in Achaenan flames.”

O lovelier than the lovely dame

That bore you, sentence as you please

Those scurril verses, be it flame

Your vengeance craves, or Hadrian seas.

Not Cybele, nor he that haunts

Rich Pytho, worse the brain confounds,

Not Bacchus, nor the Corybants

Clash their loud gongs with fiercer sounds

Than savage wrath; nor sword nor spear

Appals it, no, nor ocean's frown,

Nor ravening fire, nor Jupiter

In hideous ruin crashing down.

Prometheus, forced, they say, to add

To his prime clay some favourite part

From every kind, took lion mad,

And lodged its gall in man's poor heart.

'Twas wrath that laid Thyestes low;

'Tis wrath that oft destruction calls

On cities, and invites the foe

To drive his plough o'er ruin'd walls.

Then calm your spirit; I can tell

How once, when youth in all my veins

Was glowing, blind with rage, I fell

On friend and foe in ribald strains.

Come, let me change my sour for sweet,

And smile complacent as before:

Hear me my palinode repeat,

And give me back your heart once more.

The pleasures of Lucretilis

Tempt Faunus from his Grecian seat;

He keeps my little goats in bliss

Apart from wind, and rain, and heat.

In safety rambling o'er the sward

For arbutes and for thyme they peer,

The ladies of the unfragrant lord,

Nor vipers, green with venom, fear,

Nor savage wolves, of Mars' own breed,

My Tyndaris, while Ustica 's dell

Is vocal with the silvan reed,

And music thrills the limestone fell.

Heaven is my guardian; heaven approves

A blameless life, by song made sweet;

Come hither, and the fields and groves

Their horn shall empty at your feet.

Here, shelter'd by a friendiy tree,

In Teian measures you shall sing

Bright Circe and Penelope,

Love-smitten both by one sharp sting.

Here shall you quaff beneath the shade

Sweet Lesbian draughts that injure none,

Nor fear lest Mars the realm invade

Of Semele's Thyonian son,

Lest Cyrus on a foe too weak

Lay the rude hand of wild excess,

His passion on your chaplet wreak,

Or spoil your undeserving dress.

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 and ill,

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, desperately blind,

And Vain-glory, towering upwards in its emptyheaded 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 flame

This 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 tell

Of the Parthian, bold 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 theatre

Your welcome peal'd,

Dear knight Maecenas! as 'twere fain

That 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 mine

Falernum'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, well

Beloved of Heaven's high king.

Sing her that streams and silvan foliage loves,

Whate'er on Algidus' chill brow is seen,

In Erymanthian groves

Dark-leaved, or Cragus green.

Sing Tempe too, glad youths, in strain as loud,

And Phoebus' birthplace, and that shoulder fair,

His golden quiver proud

And brother's lyre to bear.

His arm shall banish Hunger, Plague, and War

To Persia and to Britain 's coast, away

From Rome and Caesar far,

If you have zeal to pray.

No need of Moorish archer's craft

To guard the pure and stainless liver;

He wants not, Fuscus, poison'd shaft

To store his quiver,

Whether he traverse Libyan shoals,

Or Caucasus, forlorn and horrent,

Or lands where far Hydaspes rolls

His fabled torrent.

A wolf, while roaming trouble-free

In Sabine wood, as fancy led me,

Unarm'd I sang my Lalage,

Beheld, and fled me.

Dire monster! in her broad oak woods

Fierce Daunia fosters none such other,

Nor Juba 's land, of lion broods

The thirsty mother.

Place me where on the ice-bound plain

No tree is cheer'd by summer breezes,

Where Jove descends in sleety rain

Or 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 hills

A young fawn runs her timorous dam to find,

Whom empty terror thrills

Of woods and whispering wind.

Whether 'tis Spring's first shiver, faintly heard

Through the light leaves, or lizards in the brake

The 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 fall

For one so dear? Begin the mournful stave,

Melpomene, to whom the sire of all

Sweet voice with music gave.

And sleeps he then the heavy sleep of death,

Quintilius? Piety, twin sister dear

Of 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 Thrace

You swept the lyre that trees were fain to hear,

Ne'er should the blood revisit his pale face

Whom once with wand severe

Mercury has folded with the sons of night,

Untaught to prayer Fate's prison to unseal.

Ah, heavy grief! but patience makes more light

What sorrow may not heal.

The Muses love me: fear and grief,

The winds may blow them to the sea;

Who quail before the wintry chief

Of Scythia 's realm, is nought to me.

What cloud o'er Tiridates lowers,

I care not, I. O, nymph divine

Of virgin springs, with sunniest flowers

A chaplet for my Lamia twine,

Pimplea sweet! my praise were vain

Without 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 ways

To 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 part

Of fierce Falernian? let our guest,

Megilla's brother, say what dart

Gave the death-wound that makes him blest.

He hesitates? no other hire

Shall tempt my sober brains. Whate'er

The goddess tames you, no base fire

She kindles; 'tis some gentle fair

Allures 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 fell

Would task another Pegasus.

The sea, the earth, the innumerable sand,

Archytas, thou couldst measure; now, alas!

A little dust on Matine shore has spann'd

That soaring spirit; vain it was to pass

The gates of heaven, and send thy soul in quest

O'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 breath

Once more, though down he pluck'd the shield, to prove

His prowess under Troy, and bade grim death

O'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 cast

A handful on my head, that owns no grave.

So, though the eastern tempests loudly threat

Hesperia's main, may green Venusia 's crown

Be stripp'd, while you lie warm; may blessings yet

Stream from Tarentum 's guard, great Neptune, down,

And gracious Jove, into your open lap!

What! shrink you not from crime whose punishment

Falls on your innocent children? it may hap

Imperious 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 steel

On Saba 's kings, unconquerd yet,

And make the Mede your fetters feel.

Come, tell me what barbarian fair

Will serve you now, her bridegroom slain?

What page from court with essenced hair

Will tender you the bowl you drain,

Well skill'd to bend the Serian bow

His father carried? Who shall say

That rivers may not uphill flow,

And Tiber 's self return one day,

If you would change Panaetius' works,

That costly purchase, and the clan

Of 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 home

Sweet 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 entreat

The god he hallows, as he pours

The winecup? Not the mounds of wheat

That 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 train

Calenum's vine; let trader bold

From golden cups rich liquor drain

For wares of Syria bought and sold,

Heaven's favourite, sooth, for thrice a year

He comes and goes across the brine

Undamaged. I in plenty here

On endives, mallows, succory dine.

O grant me, Phoebus, calm content,

Strength unimpaird, a mind entire,

Old age without dishonour spent,

Nor unbefriended by the lyre!

They call;—if aught in shady dell

We twain have warbled, to remain

Long 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 strand

His 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 hear

Whene'er I call!

What, Albius! why this passionate despair

For cruel Glycera? why melt your voice

In dolorous strains, because the perjured fair

Has made a younger choice?

See, narrow-brow'd Lycoris, how she glows

For Cyrus! Cyrus turns away his head

To Pholoe's frown; but sooner gentle roes

Apulian wolves shall wed,

Than Pholoe to so mean a conqueror strike:

So Venus wills it; 'neath her brazen yoke

She 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 swell

That 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,

Today through an unclouded sky

His thundering steeds and car has driven.

E'en now dull earth and wandering floods,

And Atlas' limitary range,

And Styx, and Taenarus' dark abodes

Are reeling. He can lowliest change

And loftiest; bring the mighty down

And lift the weak; with whirring flight

Comes Fortune, plucks the monarch's crown,

And decks therewith some meaner wight.

Lady of Antium, grave and stern!

O Goddess, who canst lift the low

To high estate, and sudden turn

A triumph to a funeral show!

Thee the poor hind that tills the soil

Implores; their queen they own in thee,

Who in Bithynian vessel toil

Amid the vex'd Carpathian sea.

Thee Dacians fierce, and Scythian hordes,

Peoples and towns, and Rome, their head,

And mothers of barbarian lords,

And tyrants in their purple dread,

Lest, spurn'd by thee in scorn, should fall

The state's tall prop, lest crowds on fire

To arms, to arms! the loiterers call,

And thrones be tumbled in the mire.

Necessity precedes thee still

With 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 side

When with changed robes thou tak'st thy flight

In 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 bear

An equal yoke, asunder fly.

O shield our Caesar as he goes

To furthest Britain, and his band,

Rome 's harvest! Send on Eastern foes

Their 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 beat

The blunted steel we yet may draw

On 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 bestows

On 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 calendar

This 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 tonight.

Give us roses all to twine,

And parsley green, and lilies deathly white.

Every melting eye will rest

On Damalis' lovely face; but none may part

Damalis from our new-found guest;

She clings, and clings, like ivy, round his heart.

Now drink we deep, now featly tread

A measure; now before each shrine

With Salian feasts the table spread;

The time invites us, comrades mine.

'Twas shame to broach, before today,

The Caecuban, while Egypt 's dame

Threaten'd our power in dust to lay

And 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 strong

To 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 sky

Chase the tired hare, so might he lead

The fiend enchain'd; she sought to die

More nobly, nor with woman's dread

Quail'd at the steel, nor timorously

In her fleet ships to covert fled.

Amid her ruin'd halls she stood

Unblench'd, and fearless to the end

Grasp'd the fell snakes, that all her blood

Might 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 grace

A triumph, crownless, and a slave.

No Persian cumber, boy, for me;

I hate your garlands linden-plaited;

Leave winter's rose where on the tree

It hangs belated.

Wreath me plain myrtle; never think

Plain myrtle either's wear unfitting,

Yours as you wait, mine as I drink

In vine-bower sitting.