THE TWENTY-NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE;

PARAPHRASED IN PINDARIC VERSE, AND INSCRIBED TO THE

RIGHT HON. LAURENCE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

DESCENDED of an ancient line,

That long the Tuscan sceptre sway'd, Make haste to meet the generous wine, Whose piercing is for thee delay'd:

The rosy wreath is ready made;

And artful hands prepare

The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair. When the wine sparkles from afar,

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And the well-natur'd friend cries, Come away;
Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care:
No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.

Leave for a while thy costly country seat;
And, to be great indeed, forget

The nauseous pleasures of the great :
Make haste and come:

Come, and forsake thy cloying store;

Thy turret that surveys, from high, The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;

And all the busy pageantry

That wise men scorn, and fools adore:

Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the plea

sures of the poor.

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Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty:
A savoury dish, a homely treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

The sun is in the Lion mounted high;
The Syrian star

Barks from afar,

And with his sultry breath infects the sky;
The ground below is parch'd, the heavens above us
The shepherd drives his fainting flock
Beneath the covert of a rock,

And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh:
The Sylvans to their shades retire,

[fry.

Those very shades and streams new shades and

streams require,

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[fire.

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging

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;

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When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

Enjoy the present smiling hour;

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,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force ; And trunks of trees come rolling down, 60 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,

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To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day. Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, [mine. The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are 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 :

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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:

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The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: 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 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.

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 sheers his overburden'd sheep,