Fierce famine with her meagre face,
And fevers of the fiery race,

In fwarms th' offending wretch furround,
All brooding on the blasted ground:
And limping death, lafh'd on by fate,
Comes up to fhorten half our date.
This made not Dedalus beware,
With borrow'd wings to fail in air:
To hell Alcides forc'd his way,
Plung'd thro' the lake, and fnatch'd the prey.
Nay fcarce the Gods, or heavenly climes,
Are fafe from our audacious crimes;
We reach at Jove's imperial crown.
And pull th' unwilling thunder down.

B

I.

EHOLD yon mountain's hoary height
Made higher with new mounts of snow ;
Again behold the winter's weight
Oppress the lab'ring woods below:
And streams, with icy fetters bound,
Benumb'd and crampt to folid ground.

II.

With well-heap'd logs diffolve 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 fhall betide,
God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.
III.

Let him alone, with what he made,
To tofs and turn the world below;
At his command the ftorms invade;
The winds by his commiffion blow;
Till with nod he bids 'em cease,
And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

VI. To

IV.

To-morrow and her works defy,
Lay hold upon the present hour,
And fnatch the pleasures paffing by,

To put them out of fortune's pow'r :
Nor love, nor love's delights difdain ;
Whate'er thou get'ft to-day, is gain.

V.

Secure thofe golden early joys,

That youth unfour'd with forrow bears,
Ere with'ring time the tafte destroys,
With fickness and unweildy years.
For active sports, for pleafing reft,
This is the time to be poffeft;
The beft is but in feafon beft.

VI.

Th' appointed hour of promis'd blifs,
The pleafing whifper in the dark,
The half unwilling willing kiss,

The laugh that guides thee to the mark,
When the kind nymph would coynefs feign,

And hides but to be found again;

Thefe, these are joys the Gods for youth ordain.

}

}

THE

THE

Twenty-ninth ODE of the First Book

OF

HOR A CE.

Paraphras'd in Pindaric verfe, and infcribed to the Right Hon. Laurence Earl of Rochester.

I.

Efcended of an ancient line,

That long the Tufcan fcepter fway'd,
Make hafte to meet the generous wine,
Whose piercing is for thee delay'd:
The rofy wreath is ready made;

And artful hands prepare

The fragrant Syrian oil, that fall perfume thy hair.

II.

When the wine sparkles from afar,

And the well-natur'd friend cries, Come away; Make hafte, and leave thy business and thy care: No mortal int'reft can be worth thy ftay.

III.

Leave for a while thy coftly country feat;
And, to be great indeed, forget

The naufeous pleasures of the great:
Make hafte and come:

Come,

Come, and forfake thy cloying ftore;
Thy turret that furveys, from high,
The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;
And all the bufy pageantry

That wife men fcorn, and fools adore:

Come, give thy foul a loose, and tafte the pleasures of the

poor.

IV.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A fhort viciffitude, and fit of poverty:
A favoury dish, a homely treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the ftately fpacious room,
The Perfian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

v.

The fun is in the lion mounted high;
The Syrian ftar,

Barks from afar,

And with his fultry breath infects the fky; The ground below is parch'd, the Heav'ns above us fry. The shepherd drives his fainting flock Beneath the covert of a rock,

And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

The Sylvans to their fhades retire,

Those very shades and ftreams new fhades and streams require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire,

VI.

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 inquifitive to know:

But