Like some tall pine by axe despoiled,
Or cypress strewn by angry gust,
He fell, loud crashing, and defiled
His locks with Dardan dust.

Ne'er in the horse concealed he lay,
False emblem of Minerva's power;
Nor Trojans making holiday

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,
Who prospers grain and rolls along

The months in order due.

So brides in after years shall say,
'By poet Horace taught, we loved
To sing on sacred holiday

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,
Pirithous to restore.

VIII.

TO CENSORINUS.

Goblets and cups of bronze, you know,
I'd gladly on my friends bestow;
I'd give them tripods too-the prize

For which in games the brave Greek vies;
But, Censorinus, still the best

Gifts should be yours, were I possest
Of works of art like those of old
Parrhasius was wont to mould,
Or Scopas, artists skilled to plan
On stone or canvas, god or man.
But these I can't afford, nor yet
Is your heart on such treasures set ;

'Tis verse you love, and verses I
Can for a recompense supply.
Departed chiefs live not alone

By busts and legends carved in stone.
He who pursued and, daring all,
Hurled back his threats on Hannibal,
Who impious Carthage burnt, and bore
A name from Afric's conquered shore,
His fame these feats won't keep so long
And brilliant as immortal song.
You'll never reap your fitting meed
Of praise if bards hymn not your deed.
Had silence hid his merit thus,
What had become of Romulus?
Though acus of old, the good,
Was whelmed beneath the Stygian flood,
Poets his worth and might confest,
And throned in islands of the Blest.
The virtuous man can never die,
For Muses waft his name on high.
So Hercules has never ceased
To sit a guest at Jove's high feast ;
So Leda's shining twins still save

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,
Which by no common arts allied,

To music I am singing, I

Born by far Aufidus' loud tide.

Though Homer's muse be first in rank,
Others deserve the poet's bay;
Still Pindar pleases, still we thank
Alcæus for his warlike lay.

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.