ODE XII.

TO MECENAS.

That he was so given up to Licymnia, that he could not rise to more serious subjects.

Do not insist that the long wars of fierce Numantia, or the formidable Hannibal, or the Sicilian sea, empurpled with Carthaginian blood, should be adapted to the tender lays of the lyre: nor the cruel Lapithæ, nor Hylæus, excessive in wine, and the earth-born youths (giants) subdued by Herculean force, from whom the splendid habitation of old Saturn dreaded danger. And you yourself, Mæcenas, with more propriety shall recount the battles of Cæsar, and the necks of haughty kings led in triumph through the streets, in historical prose. It was the Muse's will that I should cele-. brate the sweet strains of my mistress Licymnia, that I should celebrate her bright-darting eyes, and her breast, laudably faithful to mutual love; who can with a grace introduce her foot into the dance, or, sporting, contend in raillery, or join arms with the tight virgins, on the celebrated Diana's festival. Would you, Mecenas, change one of Licymnia's tresses for all the rich Achamenes possessed, or the Mygdonian wealth of fertile Phrygia, or all the dwellings of the Arabians, replete with treasures? Especially when she turns her neck to meet the ardent kisses, or with a gentle cruelty denies what she would more delight to have ravished by the petitioner,-sometimes she eagerly anticipates to snatch them herself.

ODE XIII.

To the Tree, by the fall of which he had like to have been crushed.

O TREE, he planted you in an inauspicious hour, whoever did it first, and with an impious hand raised you to the destruction of posterity, and the scandal of my ground. I could believe that he had broke his own father's neck, and stained his most secret apartments with the midnight blood of his guest. He has practised the Colchan poisons, and whatever wickedness is any where conceived, who planted in my field thee, a sorry log; thee, ready to tumble on the head of thy inoffensive master. What we ought to be aware of, no man is sufficiently cautious at all hours. The Carthaginian sailor thoroughly dreads the Bosphorus; nor, beyond that, does he fear his hidden fate from any other quarter. The soldier dreads the arrows and the expeditious retreat of the Parthian; the Parthian, the chains and force of the Italians: but the unexpected assault of death has carried off, and will carry off the world in general. How near was I seeing the dominions of auburn Proserpine and acus sitting in judgment; the selected mansions also of the pious, and Sappho, complaining on her Æolian lyre of her own country damsels; and thee, O Alcæus, sounding in fuller strains, on thy golden harp, the distresses of the sea, the distresses of exile, and the distresses of war. The ghosts admire them both, while they utter strains worthy of a religious silence: but the crowded multitude, with pressing shoulders, imbibes with

a more greedy ear battles and banished tyrants. What wonder? since the many-headed monster of hell,* astonished at those lays, hangs down his sable ears; and the snakes, entwined in the hair of the Furies, are soothed. Moreover, Prometheus, and the sire of Pelops, are deluded into an insensibility of their torments, by the melodious sound: nor is Orion any longer solicitous to harass the lions, or the fearful lynxes.

ODE XIV.

TO POSTHUMUS.

That death can neither be avoided or retarded; and that therefore we ought to make a generous use of riches while we live.

ALAS! my Posthumus, my Posthumus, the fleeting years glide on; nor will piety cause any delay to wrinkles, and advancing old age, and insuperable death. You could not, if you were to sacrifice every day three hundred bulls, render propitious pitiless Pluto, who confines the thrice-monstrous Geryon, and Tityos, with the dismal Stygian stream, namely, that stream which is to be passed over by all who are fed upon the munificence of the earth, whether kings or poor hinds. In vain shall we be free from sanguinary Mars, and the broken billows of the hoarse Adriatic; in vain shall we be apprehensive of the South, noxious to human bodies in the time of Autumn. The black Cocytus, wandering with languid current,

* Cerberus.

and the infamous race of Danaüs, and Sisyphus, the son of Æolus, doomed to eternal toil, must be visited your land, and house, and pleasing wife, must be left; nor shall any of these trees, which you are nursing, follow you, their transitory master, except the hated cypresses. A worthier heir shall consume your Cæcuban wines, now guarded with a hundred keys, and shall lavishly tinge the pavement with noble wine, more exquisite than what graces pontifical entertainments.

ODE XV.

He opposes the ancient thriftiness and frugality to the modern luxury and extravagance.

THE royal edifices will in a short time leave but a few acres for the plough: ponds of wider extent than the Lucrine lake will be everywhere to be seen; and the barren plane-tree will supplant the elms. Then banks of violets, and myrtle groves, and all the tribe of nosegays, shall diffuse their odours in the olive plantations, which were fruitful to their preceding master. Then the dense boughs of the laurel shall exclude the burning beams. It was not so prescribed by the institutes of Romulus, and the stern unshaven Cato, and ancient custom. Their private revenue was contracted, while that of the community was great. No private men were then possessed of ten-foot galleries, which collected the shady northern breezes; nor did the laws permit them to reject the casual turf for their own huts, though, at the same time, they obliged them to ornament, in the

most sumptuous manner, with new stone, the buildings of the public, and the temples of the Gods, at a common expense.

ODE X.VI.

TO GROSPHUS.

That happiness is obtained by bridling our affections.

O GROSPHUS, he that is caught in the wide Egean sea, when a black tempest hath obscured the moon, and never a star appears for the mariners to regulate their course by, supplicates the Gods for ease; for ease, Thrace, furious in war ; for ease, the Mede, with quiver graceful, neither purchasable by jewels, nor by purple, nor by gold. For neither regal treasures, nor the consul's officer, can remove the wretched tumults of the mind, nor cares that hover about the splendid ceilings of the great. That man lives happily on a little, who can view with pleasure the old-fashioned family salt-cellar on his frugal board; neither anxiety, nor sordid avarice, robs him of gentle sleeps. Why do we, whose vigour is so transitory, aim at many things? Why do we change our own for climates heated by another sun? Who ever, by becoming an exile from his country, likewise escaped from himself? Consuming care boards even brazen-beaked ships, nor does it quit the troops of horsemen; for it is more fleet than the stags, more fleet than the storm-driving east-wind. A mind that is cheerful for its present state, will disdain to be solicitous any farther, and can correct the bitters of life with an in