THE TWENTY-NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. PARAPHRASED IN PINDARIC VERSE, I. DESCENDED of an ancient line, That long the Tuscan sceptre swayed, Make haste to meet the generous wine, Whose piercing is for thee delayed: 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, The nauseous pleasures of the great: Come, and forsake thy cloying store; 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 V. The sun is in the Lion mounted high; Barks from afar, And with his sultry breath infects the sky; The ground below is parched, 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. VI. Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor, * And sown their seeds in depth of night; VII. Enjoy the present smiling hour, The tide of business, like the running stream, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course And bears down all before it with impetuous force: Sheep and their folds together drown; Both house and homested into seas are borne, And rocks are from their old foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honours mourn. * The poem seems to have been written during the political conflicts in the city of London. VIII. Happy the man, and happy he alone, To-morrow do thy worst, for I have lived to-day: The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine; Not heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my IX. Fortune, that with malicious joy I can enjoy her while she's kind; And shakes the wings, and will not stay, hour. 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. X. What is't to me, Who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow 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. |