Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow,
And sees no end of punishment and woe;
But looks for more, at the last gasp of breath:
This makes a hell on earth, and life a death.
Meantime when thoughts of death disturb thy
head;

Consider, Ancus, great and good, is dead;
Ancus, thy better far, was born to die;
And thou, dost thou bewail mortality?
So many monarchs with their mighty state,
Who rul'd the world, were over-rul'd by fate.
That haughty king, who lorded o'er the main,
And whose stupendous bridge did the wild
waves restrain,
[wreck.
(In vain they foam'd, in vain they threaten'd
While his proud legions march'd upon their
back:)

Him death, a greater monarch, overcame; Nor spar'd his guards the more, for their immortal name.

The Roman chief, the Carthaginian dread,
Scipio, the thunderbolt of war, is dead, [led.
And, like a common slave, by fate in triumph
The founders of invented arts are lost;
And wits, who made eternity their boast.
Where now is Homer, who possess'd the throne?
The immortal work remains, the immortal
author's gone.
Democritus, perceiving age invade,

His body weaken'd, and his mind decay'd,
Obey'd the summons with a cheerful face;
Made haste to welcome death, and met him half

the race.

That stroke e'en Epicurus could not bar,
Though he in wit surpass'd mankind, as far
As does the midday sun the midnight star.
And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy breath,
Whose very life is little more than death?
More than one half by lazy sleep possest;
And when awake, thy soul but nods at best,
Day-dreams and sickly thoughts revolving in thy
breast.

Eternal troubles haunt thy anxious mind,
Whose cause and cure thou never hop'st to find;
But still uncertain, with thyself at strife,
Thou wanderest in the labyrinth of life.
O, if the foolish race of man, who find
A weight of cares still pressing on their mind,
Could find as well the cause of this unrest,
And all this burden lodg'd within the breast;
Sure they would change their course, nor live as
Uncertain what to wish or what to vow. [now,
Uneasy both in country and in town,
They search a place to lay their burden down.
One, restless in his palace, walks abroad,
And vainly thinks to leave behind the load:
But straight returns for he's as restless there;
And finds there's no relief in open air.

Another to his villa would retire,

And spurs as hard as if it were on fire;
No sooner enter'd at his country door,
But he begins to stretch, and yawn, and snore
or seeks the city which he left before.
Thus every man o'erworks his weary will,
To shun himself, and to shake off his ill;
The shaking fit returns,and hangs upon him still.
No prospect of repose, nor hope of ease
The wretch is ignorant of his disease; [spare⚫
Which known would all his fruitless trouble
For he would know the world not worth his care;
Then would he search more deeply for the cause,
And study Nature well, and Nature's laws :
For in this moment lies not the debate,
But on our future, fix'd, eternal state; [keep,
That never-changing state, which all must
Whom death has doom'd to everlasting sleep.
Why are we then so fond of mortal life,
Beset with dangers, and maintain'd with strife?
A life, which all our care can never save;
One fate attends us, and one common grave.
Besdes, we tread but a perpetual round;
We ne'er strike out, but beat the former ground,
And the same mawkish joys in the same track
are found.

For still we think an absent blessing best,
Which cloys, and is no blessing when possest,
A new arising wish expels it from the breast.
The feverish thirst of life increases still; [fill,
We call for more and more, and never have our
Yet know not what to-morrow we shall try,
What dregs of life in the last draught may lie
Nor, by the longest life we can attain,
One moment from the length of death we gain;
For all behind belongs to his eternal reign.
When once the fates have cut the mortal thread,
The man as much to all intents is dead,
Who dies to-day, and will as long be so,
As he who died a thousand years ago.

FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF LUCRETIUS.

Tum porro puer, &c.

THUS, like a sailor by a tempest hurl'd
Ashore, the babe is shipwreck'd on the world;
Naked he lies, and ready to expire;
Helpless of all that human wants require;
Expos'd upon inhospitable earth,
From the first moment of his hapless birth.
Straight with foreboding cries he fills the room
Too true presages of his future doom.
But flocks and herds, and every savage beast,
By more indulgent nature are increased,

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;
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 harden'd oak his heart did hide,
And ribs of iron arm'd his side;
Or his at least, in hollow wood
Who tempted first the briny flood:
Nor fear'd 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 unconcern'd, 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 over-leap,
And pass at will the boundless deep.
No toil, no hardship can restrain
Ambitious man, inur'd to pain;

THE NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST
BOOK OF HORACE.

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 cramp'd to solid ground.
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't is worth his care, provide.
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 'em cease, And then the calm returns, and all is peace. 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 gett'st to-day is gain.
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 possess'd;
The best is but in season best.

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.

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,
And what the city factions dare,
And what the Gallic arms will do,

And what the quiver-bearing foe,
Art anxiously inquisitive to know:
But God has, wisely, hid from human sight
The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night,
He laughs at all the giddy turns of state;
When mortals search too soon, and fear too
Enjoy the present smiling hour; [late.
And put it out of fortune's power:
The tide of business, like the running stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

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

[force;

And bears down all before it with impetuous And trunks of trees come rolling down, Sheep and their folds together drown: Both house and homestead into seas are

borne ;

And rocks are from their old foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honours mourn.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd
to-day.

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are inine.

Not heaven itself upon the past has power: But what has been, has been, and I have had

my hour.

Fortune, that with malicious joy

Does man her slave oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is seldom pleas'd to bless :

Still various, and unconstant still,,
But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

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

And shakes the wings, and will not stay, I puff the prostitute away: The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned:

Content with poverty, my soul I arm;
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me

warm.

What is't to me,

Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,
If storms arise, and clouds grew black
If the mast split, 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, secure from Fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,
In my small pinnace I can sail,
Contemning all the blustering roar;

And running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek,
Within some little winding creek;
And see the storm ashore.

THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE.

How happy in his low degree,
How rich in humble poverty, is he,
Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of strife,
And from the griping scrivener free!
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plough'd, with oxen of their own,
Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets summon him to war,

Nor drums disturb his morning sleep,
Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,

And court and state, he wisely shuns, Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe, To servile salutations runs ;

But either to the clasping vine

Does the supporting 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 shears his overburden'd sheep,

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 clust'ring grapes with purple spread. The fairest of his fruit he serves, Priapus, thy fewards:

Sylvanus too his part deserves, Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak, Or on the matted grass he lies: No god of Sleep he need invoke ;

The stream, that o'er the the pebbles flies,
With gentle slumber crowns his eyes.
The wind, that whistles through the sprays,
Maintains the consort of the song;
And hidden birds, with native lays,

The golden sleep prolong.
But when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary frost inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

And seeks the tusky boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear
Or spreads his subtle nets from sight,
With twinkling glasses, to betray
The larks that in the meshes light,

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

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind destroys,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To ease the business of his life,
Divides with him his household care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,
Sun-burnt and swarthy though she be,
Will fire for winter nights provide,
And without noise will oversee

His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If she in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy store, With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor; Not oysters of the Lucrine lake

My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake,

And hither waft the costly dish. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird, Which Phasis or Ionia yields, More pleasing morsels would afford

Than the fat olives of my fields;
Than shards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loosen'd body sound,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the just guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feasts of happy swains,
The jolly shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he,
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their neck the loosen'd yoke:

To look upon his menial crew

That sit around his cheerful hearth, And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth.
This Morecraft said within himself,

Resolv'd to leave the wicked town;
And live retir'd upon his own,
He call'd his money in;

But the prevailing love of pelf
Soon split him on the former shelf,
He put it out again.

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF ORMOND.

MY LORD,

Anno 1699. SOME estates are held in England by paying a fine at the change of every lord. I have enjoyed the patronage of your family, from the time of your excellent grandfather to this present day. I have dedicated the translation of the Lives of Plutarch to the first Duke; and have celebrated the memory of your heroic father. Though I am very short of the age of Nestor, yet I have lived to a third generation of your house; and by your Grace's favour am admitted still to hold from you by the same tenure.

I am not vain enough to boast that I have deserved the value of so illustrious a line; but my fortune is the greater, that for three descents they have been pleased to distinguish my poems from those of other men; and have accordingly made me their peculiar care. May it be permitted me to say, that as your grandfather and father were cherished and adorned with honours by two successive monarchs, so I have been esteemed and patronized by the grandfather, the father, and the son, descended from one of the most ancient, most conspicuous, and most deserving families in Europe.

It is true, that by delaying the payment of my last fine, when it was due by your Grace's accession to the titles and patrimonies of your house, I may seem, in rigour of law, to have made a forfeiture of my claim; yet my heart has always been devoted to your service; and since you have been graciously pleased, by your permission of this address, to accept the tender of my duty, it is not yet too late to lay these poems at your feet.

The world is sensible that you worthily succeed not only to the honours of your ancestors, but also to their virtues. The long chain of magnanimity, courage, easiness of access, and desire of doing good, even to the, prejudice of

your fortune, is so far from being broken in your Grace, that the precious metal yet runs pure to the newest link of it; which I will not call the last, because I hope and pray may descend to late posterity; and your flourishing youth, and that of your excellent Duchess, are happy omens of my wish.

It is observed by Livy and by others,that some of the noblest Roman families retained a resemblance of their ancestry, not only in their shapes and features, but also in their manners, their qualities, and the distingushing characters of their minds. Some lines were noted for a stern, rigid virtue, savage, haughty, parsimonious, and unpopular: others were more sweet and affable, made of a more pliant paste, humble, courteous, and obliging; studious of doing charitable offices, and diffusive of the goods which they enjoyed. The last of these is the proper and indelible character of your Grace's family. God Almighty has endued you with a softness, a beneficence, an attractive behav ur winning on the hearts of others; and so sensible of their misery, that the wounds of fortune seem not inflicted on them, but on yourself. You are so ready to redress, that you almost prevent their wishes, and always exceed their expectations; as if what was yours was not your own, and not given you to possess, but to bestow on wanting merit. But this is a topic which I must cast in shades, lest I offend your modesty, which is so far from being ostentatious of the good you do, that it blushes even to have it known; and therefore I must leave you to the satisfaction and testimony of your own conscience, which, though it be a silent panegyric, is yet the best.

You are so easy of access, that Poplicola was not more, whose doors were opened on the outside to save the people even the common civility of asking entrance; where all were equally admitted; where nothing that was reasonable was denied; where misfortune was a powerful recommendation, and where I can scarce forbear saying that want itself was a powerful mediator, and was next to merit.

The history of Peru assures us, that their Incas, above all their titles, esteemed that the highest, which called them Lovers of the Poor; a name more glorious than the Felix, Pius, and Augustus of the Roman Emperors; which were epithets of flattery, deserved by few of them, and not running in a blood like the perpetual gentleness and inherent goodness of the Ormond family.

Gold, as it is the purest, so it is the softest and most ductile of all metals. Iron, which is the hardest, gathers rust, corrodes itself, and is therefore subject to corruption: it was never