On its wanton wings to be
Wafted to the Cretan sea.

Who's the monarch dreaded most 'Neath the frozen Arctic coast, What may Tiridates fright,

Is to me indifferent quite.

Sweet Pimplea, maiden wont
To joy thee in the purest font,
Weave me flowers that sunniest blow,
Weave them for my Lamia's brow.

Wanting thee, my praise were vain ;
With Lesbian lyre and newest strain,
To render Lamia's name divine,
'Tis thy sister's part, and thine.

ODE XXVII.

TO HIS COMPANIONS.

In your cups, that were made for delight,

To quarrel, is Thracian quite;

With the barbarous custom away

H

Morem, verecundumque Bacchum

Sanguineis prohibete rixis.

Vino et lucernis Medus acinaces
Immanè quantùm discrepat! Impium
Lenite clamorem, sodales,

Et cubito remanete presso.

Vultis severi me quoque sumere
Partem Falerni? Dicat Opuntiæ

Frater Megillæ, quo beatus

Vulnere, quâ pereat sagittâ.

Cessat voluntas? Non aliâ bibam

Mercede. Quæ te cunque domat Venus,

Non erubescendis adurit

Ignibus, ingenuoque semper

Amore peccas. Quidquid habes, age,

Depone tutis auribus-Ah! miser,

And protect modest Bacchus to-night
From every bloody affray.

How ill with the tapers and wine
Does the Median sabre combine!

At once, my companions, restrain
This impious noise, and recline
Each one on bent elbow again.

This heady Falerne must I share?
In return let the brother of fair

Megilla from Opus impart,

With what wound he is languishing there, And whence comes the soul-killing dart.

Will he not? then to drink I refuse

What Venus soever subdues

Ne'er burns you with blushes of shame; And whenever a mistress you choose, Yours is always a generous flame.

Come, whoever she be, tell it here,
You may safely confide in my ear

Quantâ laboras in Charybdi!

Digne, puer, meliore flammâ.

Quæ saga, quis te solvere Thessalis
Magus venenis, quis poterit Deus?
Vix illigatum te triformi

Pegasus expediet Chimærâ.

CARMEN XXVIII.

ARCHYTAS.

TE maris et terræ numeroque carentis arenæ Mensorem cohibent, Archyta,

Pulveris exigui prope littus parva Matinum

Munera; nec quidquam tibi prodest

Aerias tentâsse domos, animoque rotundum

Percurrisse polum, morituro!

Ah!-in what a Charybdis, poor boy,
You are struggling vainly, I fear,
Who a happier love should enjoy.

What witch, what magician can thee,
With Thessalian sorceries, free?

What God? To unloose thee again,
Scarce Pegasus equal would be,

From this triple Chimæra's sad chain.

ODE XXVIII.

ARCHYTAS.

THE scanted present of a little sand

Detains thee now on the Matinian shore, Thee, who its countless grains, and sea and land, Archytas, hath so often measur'd o'er.

Oh, what avails it thee to have explor'd

With lofty mind the regions of the sky! Oh, what avails it now that thou hast soar'd Around the pole, since thou wert born to die!