Nor always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous shore.

He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Embittering all his state.

The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wint'ry blasts; the loftiest tower
Comes heaviest to the ground:

The bolts that spare the mountain's side
His cloud-capt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.

The well-informed philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,
And hopes in spite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,

Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth

And nature laughs again.

What if thy heaven be overcast,

The dark appearance will not last

Expect a brighter sky.

The god that strings his silver bow
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,

And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen.
But, oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvas in.

XI.

TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS.

Don't worry yourself about public affairs,
And nations who dwell beyond seas;
Man wants but a little; away with your cares,
And learn to take things more at ease.

Youth flies like a dream, and all beauty must fade ;
Old age and gray hairs put to flight

The passions that once our breast wantonly swayed, And the slumbers that once were so light.

The pride of spring flowers is not always the same, And Luna's face changes its hue :

Then why ever schemes and fresh plans do you frame?
And matters too weighty pursue?

Come, let us recline 'neath the plane or the pine,
And adorn our white locks with the rose,
And forget for a while all our troubles in wine,
And anoint ourselves as we repose.

A draught of good liquor all cares will dry up.
What ho! where's the boy who will bring

To temper our glowing Falernian a cup
Of water just fresh from the spring?

Who'll tempt wanton Lyde, too, out of her cot

Go tell her to come with her lyre,

And her hair all uncombed, but tied up in a knot As fashions of Sparta require.

XII.

TO MECENAS.

Bid me not raise a warlike strain
And sing the long Numantine war,
And Hannibal, and Sicily's main
Purple with Punic gore;

And Lapitha and youths o'ercome
By wine, and all the giant brood
Who menaced Saturn's shining dome,
By Hercules subdued.

Do you, Mæcenas, rather write

In prose of Cæsar's long campaigns,
Of haughty kings he quelled in fight,
Led through the street in chains.
Your dear Licymnia's tuneful lays

The Muse has bidden me extol;
Her soft bright eyes and loving ways,
And ever faithful soul.

There's nought your charmer may not dare-
To dance becomes her well, or play,

Or wrestle with her comrades fair

On great Diana's day.

Would you exchange for all the gold

That rich Achæmenes possesses,

And Phrygia and Arabia hold,

One of Licymnia's tresses?

For kisses sweet she now appeals,

And now denies the cruel elf— What ravished she'd prefer ; she steals At times a kiss herself.

XIII.

TO A TREE.

Woe worth the day he planted you,
Whoe'er he was, accursed tree!
A nuisance to the town you grew,
A bane to men like me.

I'd soon believe that such a pest
His father's neck would freely break,
Slay on the midnight hearth his guest,
And life by poison take.

No crime could frighten him, I say,
Who planted you of old, and bred
Vile timber here to fall one day
Upon your master's head.

What all would shun, they still forget
To guard against: the sailor's breast
On ocean's risks alone is set,

He recks not of the rest.

Our soldiers Parthian arrows dread, The Roman fetters Parthians scare, But sudden death with stealthy tread Comes on us unaware.

How nearly did I visit then

Hell's gloomy Queen and nether gods,
Dread Æacus, the judge of men,

And all the blest abodes:

And Sappho with her mournful lyre,
And on his golden harp afar
Alcæus chanting perils dire

Of seas, and flight, and war.

The Shades their tuneful strains revere,
And sacred silence still maintain;
While common crowds like best to hear
Of fights and tyrants slain.

What wonder! for their songs enthral
The hundred-headed guard of hell;
The snakes that o'er the Furies crawl
Repose beneath the spell.

Prometheus, too, and Pelops' sire
Enjoy a respite sweet from toil;

Orion stays his hunter's ire

And leaves the chase awhile.

XIV.

THE COMMON LOT.

Ah, Posthumus, old friend, the years are flying fast away, No piety can death, or age, or wrinkled brows delay; Dread Pluto's heart we can't cajole-no sacrifice will

save

Dread Pluto who his victims guards with Lethe's triple

wave;