From Salamis and sire when Teucer fled,

They say he crowned with poplar moist his head. And thus the chief addrest his weeping friends : 'Where Fortune, kinder than a father, sends, Comrades, we'll go-sure none will courage need 'Neath Teucer's auspices and Teucer's lead.

Apollo swore and we can trust the god-

Another Salamis should rise abroad.

Then let us drink, brave hearts, who've known worse pain;

To-morrow o'er the sea we'll sail again.'

VIII.

TO LYDIA.

Lydia, by all the gods besought,

What is it you are doing?

Why has your love so quickly brought
Young Sybaris to ruin?

Why shuns he now the sunny field

Who ne'er to dust or heat would yield?

Why rides he not a soldier bold

Among the warlike train ?

Nor cares his Gallic steed to hold

With bit and bridle rein?

Why fears he Tiber's yellow flood,

And oil dreads worse than viper's blood?

His arm is black with no exploit,

Though he would ever win,

And o'er the goal could cast the quoit
Or else the javelin.

Hides he like Thetis' son from fear

Of warfare, should he brave appear?

IX.

TO A FRIEND.

You see Soracte's white with snow,
Woods groan beneath their weight;
The running streams no longer flow,
For frost has changed their state.

Let's drive away the cold and heap
The blazing hearth with wood,

And broach, my friend, the wine you keep
In Sabine jars so good.

Leave to the gods the rest-'tis they

Who calm the raging blast,

The rustling of the leaves allay,

And still the trees at last.

Ask not your future fate-enjoy
Each day as so much gain,
And don't despise the girls, my boy,
Nor think the dance is vain.

Now ere the frost has nipped your bower

Frequent both grove and park,

How sweet at the appointed hour,

A whisper after dark !

Now, too, the maiden's laughter charms,
Betraying where she's hidden;

Go snatch some token from her arms
Or hand-you'll scarce be chidden.

X.

TO MERCURY.

O Mercury, Atlas's eloquent child,
Who softened men's manners of old,
And made them thro' harmony gentle and mild,
And by exercise graceful and bold.

I'll sing you, inventor of harps, and of Jove
And of all the gods messenger chief;

So cunning whatever you please to remove,
By sportively playing the thief.

When he threatened your youth as he found out

your craft,

His oxen all gone by your arts,

Apollo himself at fresh treachery laughed

When he saw you had stolen his darts.

So Priam from Troy with his treasures you led
Without the Atride alarming,

Thro' Thessaly's watchfires in safety he sped,
And the camps that with perils were swarming.

'Tis your duty to guide pious souls to abodes
Of the blest, and with golden wand show
The way to the shadowy crowds, dear to gods
That rule both above and below.

XI.

TO LEUCONOE.

Seek not to know, Leuconoe,

The death that waits both you and me—
The gods forbid such quest;

Don't go and talk with gipsies old,
And try to get your fortune told ;
Let's take things for the best.

Perchance we long shall feel the blast,
Perchance this wintry gale 's our last;
Be wise, and drink-don't bother ;
E'en as we prate Time's flying on,
So seize the moment ere 'tis gone;
We may not have another.

XII.

THE PRAISE OF GODS AND HEROES.

What man, what hero's glorious fate
Will Clio choose to celebrate?

What god? whose name shall Echo sound
Where Helicon's deep shades abound?

Or where tall Pindus rises high,
Or snowy Hamus mounts the sky?
There grew the woods that moved along
Whenever Orpheus raised his song,

His mother taught him how to stay
Winds in their flight, streams on their way
He charmed the oak who bowed his head,
And followed wheresoe'er he led.

But who or what can be my theme
Before I've praised our Sire supreme,
Who gods and men, and sea and lands,
And changing seasons all commands?

Of no one greater can I tell
Than Him-He has no parallel,
Nor second either; still, in fame
The next place must Minerva claim.

I will not leave thy name untold,
Bacchus, once proved in battle bold:
Nor hers of savage beasts the foe;
Nor his, the god with dreaded bow.

I'll sing of Hercules's might,
And Leda's twins-one famed in fight,
And one for chariot skill-bright signs:
Soon as their light on seamen shines,

Down from the rocks the waters glide,
The clouds disperse, the winds subside,
The threatening waves at their behest
Calmly recline on Ocean's breast.

Next shall I tell in tuneful strain
Of Romulus or Numa's reign?
Of Tarquin's axes and his pride,
Or Cato's noble suicide?