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THE

THIRD ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK

OF

HORACE.

INSCRIBED TO

THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON,

ON HIS INTENDED VOYAGE TO IRELAND. *

So may the auspicious queen of love,
And the twin stars, the seed of Jove,
And he who rules the raging wind,
To thee, O sacred ship, be kind;

* Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, an elegant poet and accomplished nobleman, was created captain of the band of pensioners after the Restoration, and made a considerable figure at the court of Charles 11. But, having injured his fortune by gaming, and being engaged in a lawsuit with the Lord Privy Seal concerning a considerable part of his estate, he found himself obliged to retire to Ireland, and resigned his post at the English Court. After having resided some years in that kingdom, where he enjoyed the post of captain of the guards to the Duke of Ormond, he returned to England, where he died in 1684. Besides the ode which follows, there are several traces through Dryden's works of his intimacy with Roscommon.

And gentle breezes fill thy sails,

Supplying soft Etesian gales:

As thou, to whom the muse commends
The best of poets and of friends,
Dost thy committed pledge restore,
And land him safely on the shore;
And save the better part of me,
From perishing with him at sea.
Sure he, who first the passage tried,
In hardened oak his heart did hide,
And ribs of iron armed his side;
Or his at least, in hollow wood,
Who tempted first the briny flood;
Nor feared the winds' contending roar,
Nor billows beating on the shore,
Nor Hyades portending rain,
Nor all the tyrants of the main.
What form of death could him affright,
Who unconcerned, with steadfast sight,
Could view the surges mounting steep,
And monsters rolling in the deep!
Could through the ranks of ruin go,
With storms above, and rocks below!
In vain did Nature's wise command
Divide the waters from the land,
If daring ships and men profane
Invade the inviolable main;
The eternal fences overleap,

And pass at will the boundless deep.

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No toil, no hardship, can restrain
Ambitious man, inured to pain;

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The more confined, the more he tries,

And at forbidden quarry flies.

Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,

And stole from Heaven the seeds of fire,
A train of ills, a ghastly crew,

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The robber's blazing track pursue;

Fierce famine with her meagre face,
And fevers of the fiery race,

In swarms the offending wretch surround,
All brooding on the blasted ground;
And limping death, lashed on by fate,
Comes up to shorten half our date.
This made not Dædalus beware,
With borrowed wings to sail in air;
To hell Alcides forced his way,

Plunged through the lake, and snatched the prey.

Nay, scarce the gods, or heavenly climes,
Are safe from our audacious crimes;
We reach at Jove's imperial crown,
And pull the unwilling thunder down.

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THE

NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK

OF

HORACE.

1.

BEHOLD yon mountain's hoary height, Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter's weight

Oppress the labouring woods below; And streams, with icy fetters bound, Benumbed and crampt to solid ground.

II.

With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold,
And feed the genial hearth with fires;
Produce the wine, that makes us bold,
And sprightly wit and love inspires:
For what hereafter shall betide,
God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.

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