Like some tall pine by axe despoiled, Ne'er in the horse concealed he lay, Deceived, nor Priam's tower. In open day he'd victims seek, And raged to burn-ah, shocking doom!— Infants before they learnt to speak, E'en in their mother's womb. But thine and Venus' prayers prevailed, And heaven's great Sire relaxed his frown; And so Æneas safely sailed, And built a happier town! To thee, the Muse's priest, I cry, Who lav'st in Xanthus' stream thy hair, Agyieus, beardless god, be aye The Daunian harp thy care. 'Twas Phoebus breathed his soul in me, And warmed me with poetic fires; Ye maids of noble ancestry And sons of famous sires, Comrades of her whom Delos bred, Who lynx and stag pursues o'er plains, Preserve the measure Sappho led And still my lyre retains. Latona's son invoke with song, And her whose light is waxing new, The months in order due. So brides in after years shall say, A strain the gods approved.' VII. TO TORQUATUS. The snow is gone, and grass again is seen, And leaves the trees adorn ; The season's changed, the shrunken streams between Their banks are smoothly borne. Now Grace and Nymph, unrobed, the dance prepare; The year that flies so fast, And passing hour all warn us not to dare To think that ought will last. Soft Zephyrs temper cold; Spring yields to Summer, Which in its turn will go, When Autumn bears its fruit; and then the comer Will be old Winter slow. What though the waning moon's renewed again, When once our way is made, Where Tullus, Ancus, and Æneas reign, We're nought but dust and shade. Who knows if to the total of your days The gods will add to-morrow? Your gifts to friends and all your wasteful ways Will bring your heir to sorrow. When once you're dead, and Minos has assigned Your last most awful doom, Nor birth, nor worth, nor eloquence you'll find Can raise you from the tomb. Not e'en Diana could from hell regain Hippolytus once more. And Theseus laboured hard, but all in vain, VIII. TO CENSORINUS. Goblets and cups of bronze, you know, For which in games the brave Greek vies; Gifts should be yours, were I possest 'Tis verse you love, and verses I By busts and legends carved in stone. Ships from the fury of the wave, And vine-crowned Bacchus suppliants hears And brings to happy end their prayers. IX. TO LOLLIUS. Think not these words are doomed to die, To music I am singing, I Born by far Aufidus' loud tide. Though Homer's muse be first in rank, Old are Anacreon's playful strains, But time has failed to spoil their charm ; And still the Æolian lyre retains The fires which Sappho's numbers warm. Was Helen, pray, the only maid Who found in lover's locks a snare? Whom greed of gold and dress betrayed, And tinsel and companions fair? Was Teucer first to draw a bow, Troy stormed but once with fire and sword Was Sthenelus the sole brave foe Whose prowess Muses will record? Others before fierce Hector came, And ere Deiphobus arose, Have fought to save their wives from shame, Their children from insulting foes. |