XXII.

INNOCENCE A SHIELD.

He who is blameless and upright
Will, Fuscus, need no arms,
No poisoned darts, no bow of might
To keep him safe from harms.

Through sultry Syrtes he may stray,
Or Caucasus unkind;

Where famed Hydaspes makes its way
A passage safe he'll find.

For as I sang of Lalage,

And wandered free from care,

I met a wolf who turned to flee,
Though I of arms was bare.

Such monsters on its pasture land
Sure Daunia never feeds;

Such monsters not e'en Juba's strand,

The nurse of lions, breeds.

Place me in desert plains, where ne'er

A tree feels cooling gales;

Place me where clouds their storms prepare,

And angry Jove prevails.

Place me in lands from dwellings free,

Where suns most fiercely beat,

And still I'll love my Lalage,

Her voice and laughter sweet.

XXIII.

TO CHLOE.

You fly me, Chloe, like a fawn
That seeks its mother, and is drawn
O'er trackless hills, and vainly fears
The rustling of the leaves it hears.

For whether Spring with gentle breeze
Has stirred the foliage of the trees,
Or lizards green the bushes shake,
Its heart and knees do nought but quake.

But I'm no tiger to ill-treat you,
Nor yet a lion, and sha'nt eat you ;
So, now you are a woman grown,

Pray leave your mother all alone.

Can

XXIV.

TO VIRGIL.

any shame for sorrow bring relief

For such a loss? What bounds shall hold our grief? Begin the dirge, Melpomene; for heaven

Thee voice and lyre has given.

And so Quintilius is at rest for ever.

O Honour, Faith that was corrupted never,
Sister of Justice, Truth aye bold to strike,
When will ye find his like?

His death to many loving souls brought woe;
On thee, O Virgil, fell the heaviest blow;

No terms were made when he became thy care :—
Vainly thou offerest prayer.

E'en could'st thou strike the lyre, the trees obeyed With more enchanting notes than Orpheus made, Its blood would never warm that empty ghost, Which to the gloomy host

Stern Mercury, who ne'er reverses fate,
Has banished with his awful wand of late.
'Tis hard; but patience teaches to endure
The ill we may not cure.

XXVI.

TO THE MUSE.

I'll make all gloomy thought and fear
A present to the wind,

Afar o'er Cretan seas to bear

The Muse to me is kind.

I care not now a straw to know

What tyrant at the Pole

Is feared, nor yet what causes woe
To Tiridates' soul.

Lover of founts that purely flow,

Bright flowers together join,

And for my dear friend Lamia's brow,
Sweet Muse, a chaplet twine.

What profits fame if thou art dumb,
Nor wilt my soul inspire?
But Lamia's praise will well become
Thine and thy sisters' lyre.

XXVII.

TO HIS COMRADES

To brawl o'er wine's a great abuse-
The habit comes from Thrace-
Abandon such a barbarous use,

For cups were meant for peace.

Keep modest Bacchus ever free

From strife, nor stain with blood your glee,

Sure torches bright and goblets gay

With Persian javelin

Agree but ill; so don't delay,

But stop this horrid din,

And quietly, my friends, recline,

And on your couches quaff your wine.

And must I also take a part?

Then let Megilla's brother

Confess to whom he lost his heart,

Whose flame he seeks to smother. He won't? Then if he thus affirms, I'll drink upon no other terms.

Whatever love enthralls your mind
Your cheek need feel no shame;

Such frailties easy pardon find.

Come, tell me what's her name?

My tongue the secret won't reveal

...

Ah! wretch, how much for you I feel!

On what a stormy sea you rove,
Deserving better luck?

What charm can quell, what god remove
The spell by which you're struck?
Why, scarce would Pegasus himself
Free you from such a dangerous elf.

XXVIII.

ARCHYTAS.

Thou, too, Archytas, who both sea and land
Measuredst and all the innumerable sand,
Art by a little earth cast on the shore,
Restrained from further flight for evermore.

What profits now to have ranged thro' realms on high
And mapped the universe, so soon to die!
Death seized on Tantalus, the host of gods,
And old Tithonus bore to blest abodes,

And Minos died who knew Jove's secrets well,
And twice Pythagoras was sent to hell;
Although he showed his shield and talked of Troy,
And swore death only could his limbs destroy
But not his soul and well thou know'st he was
No mean expositor of Nature's laws.

Yes, all must feel alike the shrouding gloom,
All tread the path that leads but to the tomb.
Some Furies slay in war, stern Mars to sate,
Whilst 'tis at sea that sailors find their fate.