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, lash'd on by fate,
Comes up to shorten half our date.
This made not Dædalus beware,
With borrow'd wings to sail in air;
To hell Alcides forced his way,
Plunged through the lake, and snatch'd the
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.

prey.

THE

NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK

OF

HORACE.

I.

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,
Benumb'd and crampt to solid ground.

II.

With well-heap'd 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.

III.

Let him alone, with what he made,
To toss and turn the world below;
At his command the storms invade,

The winds by his commission blow;
Till with a nod he bids them cease,
And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

IV.

To-morrow and her works defy,
Lay hold upon the present hour,
And snatch the pleasures passing by,
To put them out of fortune's power:
Nor love, nor love's delights, disdain;
Whate'er thou get'st to-day, is gain.

V.

Secure those golden early joys,

That youth unsour'd with sorrow bears,
Ere withering time the taste destroys,
With sickness and unwieldy years.
For active sports, for pleasing rest,
This is the time to be possest;
The best is but in season best.

VI.

The appointed hour of promised bliss,
The pleasing whisper in the dark,
The half unwilling willing kiss,

;

The laugh that guides thee to the mark When the kind nymph would coyness feign, And hides but to be found again;

These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.

}

THE

TWENTY-NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK

OF

HORACE.

PARAPHRASED IN PINDARIC VERSE,

AND INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. LAURENCE,

EARL OF ROCHESTER.

I.

DESCENDED of an ancient line,
That long the Tuscan sceptre sway'd,
Make haste to meet the generous wine,
Whose piercing is for thee delay'd :
The rosy wreath is ready made,

And artful hands prepare

The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair.

II.

When the wine sparkles from afar,

And the well-natured friend cries, "Come away!" Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care, No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.

III.

Leave for a while thy costly country seat,
And, to be great indeed, forget

The nauseous pleasures of the great:
Make haste and come;

Come, and forsake thy cloying store;

Thy turret, that surveys, from high,
The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome,
And all the busy pageantry

That wise men scorn, and fools adore;

Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the poor.

IV.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty:
A savoury dish, a homely treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

V.

The sun is in the Lion mounted high;

The Syrian star

Barks from afar,

And with his sultry breath infects the sky; The ground below is parch'd, the heavens above us fry:

The shepherd drives his fainting flock
Beneath the covert of a rock,

And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

The Sylvans to their shades retire,

Those very shades and streams new shades and streams require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.