But God has, wifely, hid from human fight

The dark decrees of future fate,

And fown their feeds in depth of night;
He laughs at all the giddy turns of ftate;

When mortals fearch too foon, and fear too late,
VII.

Enjoy the prefent fmiling hour;

And put it out of fortune's pow'r :
The tide of bufinefs, like the running fream,
Is fometimes high, and fometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempeftuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noifeless gentle courfe
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force:
And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown:
Both houfe and homefted into feas are borne ;
And rocks are from their old foundations torn,

And woods, made thin with winds, their fcatter'd honours

mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own :
He who, fecure within, can fay,

To-morrow do thy worft, for I have liv'd to-day
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,

The joys I have paffefs'd, in fpite of fate are mine,
Not Heav'n itfelf upon the past has pow'r;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

IX.

Fortune, that, with malicious joy,

Does man her flave oppress,

Proud of her office to deftroy,

Is feldom pleas'd to bless :

Still various and unconftant ftill,

But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in ftrife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while fhe's kind;
But when the dances in the wind,

And thakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:

The little or the much the gave, is quietly refign'd:
Content with poverty, my foul I arm;

And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.
X.

What is't to me,

Who never fail in her unfaithful fea,

If forms arife, and clouds grow
black;
If the maft fplit, and threaten wreck ?
Then let the greedy merchant fear
For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear
His wealth into the main.

For me, fecure, from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,
In my fmall pinace I can fail,
Contemning all the bluft'ring roar ;
And running with a merry gale,
With friendly ftars my fafety feek
Within fome little winding creek;
And fee the form afhore.

THE

The SECOND EPODE of

HOR A CE.

OW happy in his low degree,

HOW
How rich in humble poverty, is he,

Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of strife,
And from the griping fcrivener free?
Thus, ere the feeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their fmall paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets fummon him to war.
Nor drums difturb his morning fleep,
Nor knows he merchants gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,

And court and ftate, he wifely fhuns,
Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To fervile falutations runs ;
But either to the clasping vine

Does the fupporting poplar wed,
Or with his pruning-hook disjoin
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more happy in their stead:
Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar,
Or fheers his overburden'd fheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now declining year,

.

When bounteous autumn rears his head,

He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And cluft'ring grapes with purple spread.

The fairest of his fruit he ferves,
Priapus, thy rewards:

Sylvanus too his part deferves,
Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grafs he lies;
No God of fleep he need invoke ;
The ftream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whiftles through the sprays
Maintains the confort of the fong;
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden fleep prolong.
But when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary froft inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

And feeks the tusky boar to rear,

With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed (pear! Or fpreads his fubtle nets from fight With twinkling glafies, to betray The larks that in the meshes light,

Or makes the fearful hare his prey.
Amidst his harmless eafy joys

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind deftroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth,
But if a chafte and pleafing wife,
To ease the bufinefs of his life,
Divides with him his houthold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and fwarthy tho' fhe be,
Will fire for winter nights provide,
And without noife will oversee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;

If the in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy ftore,
With wine to drive away the cold,
And unbought dainties of the poor;
Not oyfters of the Lucrine lake
My fober appetite would wish,
Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
That rolling tempefts overtake,
And hither waft the coftly dish.
Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,
Which Phafis or Ionia yields,
More pleafing morfels would afford
Than the fat olives of my fields;
Than fhards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loofen'd body found,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot
To the juft guardian of my ground.
Amidst thefe feafts of happy fwains,
The jolly fhepherd fmiles to fee
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen fweating fmoke,
Bear on their necks the loofen'd yoke;
To look upon his menial crew,

That fit around his chearful hearth,

And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholfome food and country mirth.

This Morecraft faid within himself,

Refolv'd to leave the wicked town:

And live retir'd upon

He call'd his money in ;

his own,

But the prevailing love of pelf,

Soon split him on the former fhelf,

He put it out again.

The End of the SECOND VOLUME.