Far other times, and of far different hue,
Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood.
Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts
From Sicily, and Latium often changed
Her master and her name. At length arose
Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantic form
Was chief; and we Italians since have call'd
The river by his name; thus Albula
(So was the country call'd in ancient days)
Was quite forgot. Me from my native land
An exile, through the dangerous ocean driven,
Resistless fortune and relentless fate

Placed where thou seest me. Phoebus, and
The nymph Carmentis, with maternal care
Attendant on my wanderings, fix'd me here.

*

*

*

*

He said, and show'd him the Tarpeian rock,
And the rude spot where now the Capitol
Stands all magnificent and bright with gold,
Then overgrown with thorns. And yet e'en then
The swains beheld that sacred scene with awe;
The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear.
This grove, he said, that crowns the lofty top
Of this fair hill, some deity, we know,
Inhabits, but what deity we doubt.
The Arcadians speak of Jupiter himself,
That they have often seen him, shaking here
His gloomy Egis, while the thunder storms
Came rolling all around him. Turn thine eyes,
Behold that ruin; those dismantled walls,
Where once two towns, Janiculum

By Janus this, and that by Saturn built,
Saturnia. Such discourse brought them beneath
The roof of poor Evander; thence they saw,
Where now the proud and stately forum stands,
The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field.
Soon as he enter'd-Hercules, he said,
Victorious Hercules, on his threshold trod,
These walls contain'd him, humble as they are.
Dare to despise magnificence, my friend,
Prove thy divine descent by worth divine,
Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode.
So saying, he led Aneas by the hand,

And placed him on a cushion stuff'd with leaves,
Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear.

*

*

*

*

While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd,
Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day,
And the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves
Of his low mansion, old Evander rose.
His tunic, and the sandals on his feet,
And his good sword well girded to his side,
A panther's skin dependent from his left,
And over his right shoulder thrown aslant

Thus was he clad. Two mastiffs follow'd him,
His whole retinue and his nightly guard.

OVID, TRIST. BOOK V. ELEG. XII.
Scribis, ut oblectem.

You bid me write to amuse the tedious hours,
And save from withering my poetic powers;
Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow
From the free mind, not fetter'd down by woe;
Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost,
Whoe'er has cause for sorrow, I have most.
Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons all slain,
Or childless Niobe from tears refrain,
Join the gay dance, and lead the festive train?
Does grief or study most befit the mind
To this remote, this barbarous nook confined?
Could you impart to my unshaken breast
The fortitude by Socrates possess'd,

Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine,
For what is human strength to wrath divine?
Wise as he was, and Heaven pronounced him so,
My sufferings would have laid that wisdom low.
Could I forget my country, thee and all,
And e'en the offence to which I owe my fall,
Yet fear alone would freeze the poet's vein,
While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain.
Add that the fatal rust of long disuse

Unfits me for the service of the muse.

Thistles and weeds are all we can expect
From the best soil impoverish'd by neglect;
Unexercised, and to his stall confined,

The fleetest racer would be left behind;

The best built bark that cleaves the watery way, Laid useless by, would moulder and decay

No hope remains that time shall me restore,

Mean as I was, to what I was before.
Think how a series of desponding cares
Benumbs the genius and its force impairs.
How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet,

My verse, constrain'd to move with measured feet,
Reluctant and laborious limps along,
And proves itself a wretched exile's song.
What is it tunes the most melodious lays?
'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise,
A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,
While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame?
No, rather let the world forget my name.
Is it because that world approved my strain,
You prompt me to the same pursuit again?
No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,
I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse,

And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,
The victim of my own pernicious art;
Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain,
And, shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again.
Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land,
None to consult, and none to understand.
The purest verse has no admirers here,
Their own rude language only suits their ear.
Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,
I learn it, and almost unlearn my own--
Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains
Confinement, and attempts her former strains,
But finds the strong desire is not the power,
And what her taste condemns the flames devour.
A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,
And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;
But oh the cruel art, that could undo

Its votary thus! would that could perish too!

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE IX.

Vides, ut altâ stet nive candidum
Soracte;

SEEST thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,
The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow,
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;

Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile
With seasonable mirth.

This be our part-let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow's pass'd away,
We at least shall have to say,

We have lived another day;

Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,

Old

age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVIII.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.

Boy, I hate their empty shows,
Persian garlands I detest,

Bring not me the late-blown rose,
Lingering after all the rest.

Plainer myrtle pleases me,

Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;

Myrtle more becoming thee,

Waiting with thy master's wine.

HORACE, BOOK I. ODE XXXVII.

Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,
Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting;
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,
Where latest roses linger.

Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily)
Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage
Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking
Beneath my vine's cool shelter.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X.

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Embittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloudcapt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform'd philosopher,
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain;
If Winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,
And Nature laughs again.

What if thine heaven be overcast,

The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.

The God that strings the silver bow
Awakes sometimes the muses too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen.
But O! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.

A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING ODE.

AND is this all! Can Reason do no more
Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore?
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,

The Christian has an art unknown to thee:
He holds no parley with unmanly fears;
Where Duty bids he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,

And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

HORACE, BOOK II. ODE XVI.
Otium Divos rogat in patenti.

EASE is the weary merchant's prayer,
Who ploughs by night the Agean flood,
When neither moon nor stars appear,
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.
For ease the Mede with quiver graced,
For ease the Thracian hero sighs,
Delightful ease all pant to taste,

A blessing which no treasure buys.
For neither gold can lull to rest,
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breast,
The cares that haunt a gilded roof.
Happy the man whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate,
No fear intrudes on his repose,

No sordid wishes to be great.

Poor short-lived things, what plans we lay,
Ah, why forsake our native home?

To distant climates speed away;

For self sticks close where'er we roam.

Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes
The well-rigg'd ship, the warlike steed;
Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes-

Not the wind flies with half her speed.

From anxious fears of future ill

Guard well the cheerful, happy now;
Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,
No blessing is unmix'd below.

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,
Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,
And the best purple Tyre affords
Thy robe magnificent displays.
On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd
A rural mansion, neat and small;
This lyre; and as for yonder crowd.
The happiness to hate them all.