So saw the northern tribes his might,

Who in their right hand hold An Amazonian axe, and fight

As taught by custom old;
Its origin I cannot trace,—
'Tis vain all knowledge to embrace.

But hosts that long victorious flew
Have bowed to Drusus' rule,
And learned what skill and genius do,
Trained in a happy school;

And to the Neros with what art
Augustus played a father's part,

The brave come of a gallant breed,
And, if of generous birth,
Both in the ox and in the steed

Is seen ancestral worth;

Fierce eagles mating in their loves
Have not for offspring timid doves.

But inbred vigour fostered by
Learning is ever best,

And discipline must fortify

And arm the hero's breast;
Whenever morals lose their sway,
The noblest will to vice give way.

What to the Neros, Rome, you owe,
Metaurus' stream can tell,

And vanquished Hannibal can show,
And that bright day knows well,
That smiled with victory first, the night
That hung o'er Latium taking flight.

How dark a sky was that when he,
The dreaded Afric foe,
Unchecked made way through Italy,

And brought her towns to woe!
So flame through pinewoods fiercely raves,
So Eurus rides Sicilian waves.

Ere long a fairer fortune smiled,
And crowned our Roman youth;
The temples of the gods, defiled

And plundered without ruth-
The temples which the foe o'erthrew—
Had all their shrines restored anew.

Then outspoke Hannibal the base:
'Like stags, of wolves the prey,
We rush on those whom in the race
To cheat in every way,

And fly from, wheresoe'er we will,
Must be our highest triumph still.

'Ah! what a nation that, how brave,
Which blazing Troy expelled,
And o'er the stormy Tuscan wave
Its sacred treasures held,

And young and old both safely bore

To harbour on Italian shore !

'Thus stands, methinks, an ancient oak

On dark-leaved Algidus;

Though riven by the axe's stroke,

It totters not; and thus,

From crashing blow, from murderous knife,

Rome draws fresh vigour and new life.

'The Hydra's heads not faster sprung

When, gashed at every pore,

He waged with Hercules so long
His unsuccessful war ;

No greater wonder Colchis knew,
Nor Thebes a stranger monster slew.

'Go, plunge her in the deep, she'll rise
E'en brighter than before;
Fight, and she will in glorious guise
Conquer the conqueror.

Long will she battle fierce, and lung
Will wives recite her deeds in song.

'To Carthage I shall send no more
My messengers proud-hearted;
Our sun is set, our day is o'er,
Our glory is departed:

For every hope our name to save

Is buried in my brother's grave.'

There's nought can daunt the Claudian line,

Its courage conquers all;

Its armies brave Jove's power divine

Preserves from flight and fall ; Sage counsels guide them like a star In worst extremity of war.

V.

TO AUGUSTUS.

Sprung from kind gods, best guardian thou,

Cæsar, of all the Roman race,

Too long away, redeem thy vow,

And soon the Senate grace.

Light to thy land, great chief, restore ;

Thy visage, bright as spring, makes day

More gladly pass, and sunbeams pour
Around a purer ray.

As some sad mother sighs to face

Her son, whom storms beyond the main Delay, and for a twelvemonth's space From his dear home detain.

With vows and prayers she begs relief,
Still on the shore her gaze is set;
'Tis thus his country seeks her chief,
And with as fond regret.

Safe rove our oxen through the vale,
And Peace and Plenty smile around;
O'er tranquil waves our seamen sail,
And Faith is blameless found.

Chaste homes no foul adulteries stain,
The crime is now no more in birth
Children are like their sires again,

And prove their mothers' worth.

Vengeance on guilt attends; who'll dread
The Parthian, under Cæsar's star?
Scythian or German, roughly bred,
Or fierce Iberia's war?

Each in his own fields spends the days,
And weds to vine the widowed tree;
Comes back to supper glad, and prays,
And makes a god of thee.

On thee they call, to thee they pour
Their wine, thy deity to please;
So Greece in memory Castor bore,
And mighty Hercules.

Long may'st thou bring, brave chieftain, long

Days of sweet peace to Italy!

This is the burden of our song,
Late, early, moist, or dry.

VI.

TO APOLLO.

God who on sons of Niobe

Didst once avenge her impious boasts,
Whom lustful Tityus felt, and he,
The terror of Troy's hosts:

Achilles, mightier than the rest,

Was never match for thee, though near To Ilium's battlements he prest,

And shook them with his spear.