I'll praise the Scauri in my verse,
And Regulus's fame rehearse,

And Paulus, prodigal of life,

When Carthage conquered in the strife.

Fabricius, Curius, strong in war,

With shaggy locks that streamed afar ; Camillus, too-from humble farms And poverty they came to arms.

As trees shoot upward silently,
So mounts Marcellus' fame on high;
The Julian star the test outshines,
As Luna dims the lesser signs.

O Sire and Shield of all our line,
From ancient Saturn sprung, 'tis thine
To watch o'er Cæsar-after thee
Cæsar's the second place shall be.

Whether a victory he gains

O'er Medes who threaten Latian plains, Or in the East he brings to bay

The arms of India and Cathay,

He'll rule the world, both near and far,
Subject to thee; thy awful car
Shall shake Olympus-thou shalt cast
At groves profane thy lightning's blast.

XIII.

TO LYDIA.

Ah, Lydia, while you praise the charms
Of Telephus, his neck of snow,
And while you laud his waxen arms,
My breast with rage is all aglow.

My mind gives way-the teardrop flows Adown my cheeks and steals my bloom, And shows, alas !-too plainly showsWhat torturing fires my soul consume.

I rage to see your shoulders white,

By wine in drunken quarrels stained;

I rage to see the mark his bite

Has on your ruddy cheek engrained.

O never deem (my counsel's sound),

You'll long by such a wretch be wooed, Who loves that pretty mouth to wound, With Venus' nectar all imbued.

Thrice happy they, and more I say,
Whom firm affection's bonds fast tie,
Whose love by strife's ne'er wrenched away,
And ne'er will cease before they die.

XIV.

TO THE REPUBLIC.

(AN ALLEGORY.)

Good ship, take care! shall billows bear You forth to sea again?

You've lost your every oar, your mast

Is shattered by the rushing blast ;
Don't tempt the treacherous main.

Your yards loud creak; your keel is weak,
And scarcely can withstand

The violence of ocean's tide,
Unless due cordage is supplied;
You'd better stick to land.

Your sails are torn, your gods forlorn,
What profits to complain?
Though once a Pontic pine you stood,

A noble daughter of the wood,

Your race and rank are vain.

'Tis useless quite your fame to cite ; No faith a sailor finds

In painted sterns, so take good heed,
And don't become thro' stress and need
The plaything of the winds.

A trouble sore you proved of yore ;
And still a cause of grief,

I watch thee with despair, and cry,
'Avoid, avoid the risks that lie

'Mid ocean's rock and reef.'

с

XV.

THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS.

When in his bark with Helen at his side

The faithless shepherd sailed across the tide,

Old Nereus calmed the wave and stilled the wind, To sing of fate behind.

'Ill-omened

voyage ! her you bear away
All Greece shall arm to carry back one day,
Sworn these unhallowed nuptials to undo
And Priam's empire too.

Alas! what toil I see for man and horse,
What dire destruction to the Dardan force!
Already Pallas takes her helm, and shield,
And chariot for the field.

In vain you trust the aid of Venus fair,
And bold appear, and comb your flowing hair;
In vain on harps unwarlike strains you raise
To gain a woman's praise.

All vainly in your chamber will you shun
Sharp spears, and darts, and Ajax Telamon,
The fleet of foot-your wanton locks you must
Hereafter stain with dust.

Lo! there Ulysses, of your race the bane,
Lo! Pylian Nestor also in his train.

Bold Teucer follows hard upon your track,
And Sthenelus not slack

To fight or guide his foaming steeds aright: There's Merion too, who breaks upon your sight, And Diomede the fierce, consumed with ire, E'en braver than his sire.

Him, coward-like you'll deeply panting fly,
As stags, forgetting pasture when they spy
Far down the vale a wolf: not thus your pride
Once promised to your bride.

Achilles' angry fleet the fatal day

To Troy and Troy's proud matrons shall delay. A few fixed years, and Ilium's towers shall fall— The Grecian flame their pall.'

XVI.

THE RECANTATION.

Fair is thy mother, gentle girl,
But thou art fairer still;
I pray now throw afar from thee
My slanderous verses in the sea,
Or burn them at thy will.

Not Cybele nor Pythian rage,
Possessing priestly souls,

Bacchus nor Corybant thou'lt find

Works so like madness on the mind

As wrath which none controls.