May Helen's brothers never fail,
And Cyprus' queen be kind,
May Æolus send a gentle gale

And all fierce tempests bind.

His frame was surely fortified
By oak and triple brass,
Who first in fragile vessel tried
O'er cruel seas to pass.

Contending winds ne'er shook his soul,
Not e'en the South-West dire,

Who rules the wave with strong control,
And wakes or calms its ire.

What kind of death would daunt his breast
Who saw, and felt no shock,
Huge monsters, Ocean's angry crest,
Acroceraunia's rock?

In vain the wise gods separate
By water shore from shore,
If impious barks will, tempting fate,
Forbidden seas explore.

But man by crimes was never awed,
Nor from his purpose driven;
Prometheus dared by wicked fraud
To fetch down fire from heaven.

When fire had once been brought below, Decay and fever spread,

And death, at first remote and slow,

Came on with quickened tread.

There's Dædalus, who sailed, they tell,

On false wings thro' the air;

There's Hercules, who plunged through hell

What will not mortals dare?

'Gainst heaven itself our foolish pride

Is aimed our crimes are great ;

And Jove will never lay aside
The thunderbolts of fate.

IV.

TO L. SEXTIUS.

The bitter winter melts, we feel
The pleasing change; once more
Spring's balmy breezes o'er us steal,
The ships are hauled from shore..

The ploughman can't in fires delight,
Nor cattle in their shed,

No meadows now are robed in white,
The snow and frost have fled.

Venus leads dances as of yore,

While Luna shines on high;

The Nymphs and Graces shake the floor
In footing merrily.

While gloomy Vulcan works away,

His fiery forge still plying,

We should the myrtle's verdant spray
Upon our brows be tying,

Or some fair flower which earth now yields;

'Tis fitting, too, to-day,

To Faunus in the shady fields

A lamb or kid to slay.

In poor men's huts, in great men's halls,

Pale Death's no partial guest :

O Sextius, care not what befalls,
For life is short at best.

You'll soon to Night and spectres go,
And Pluto's shadowy hosts;

And there you'll find no dice to show
Who's master of the toasts.

There Lycidas you'll cease to admire,
Him who so finely made is,

For whom now every youth's on fire,
As soon will be the ladies.

V.

TO PYRRHA.

Who is the slender youth bedewed
With perfumes, decked with roses,
Who last fair Pyrrha's charms has wooed,
And in some grot reposes?

For whom dost bind thy yellow hair

So simply and so neatly?

How oft at fickle faith he'll swear,

And curse his gods completely!

How oft he'll see-unwonted sight

His ocean all o'ercast,

Who for a while basks in thy light,
And thinks that light will last.

He deems thou ever wilt be dear,
Thy favours aye the same,
Forgetting how the wind may veer-
Poor moth, unused to flame!

For me, I've shipwreck 'scaped; the wall
And votive brass declare,
I've hung my dripping garments all

In Neptune's honour there.

VI.

TO AGRIPPA.

Varius your valorous actions will rehearse
And laud the victor in Homeric verse,
And all the deeds by land and sea
Your soldiers did triumphantly.

Your praise, Agrippa, ne'er will suit my lyre,
I cannot sing Achilles' stubborn ire,

Nor false Ulysses' wandering course,
Nor Pelops' house of cruel force.

For me such themes are all too great, I say, And soon my lack of genius would betray; My timid Muse is far too weak

Of yours and Cæsar's fame to speak.

Who can describe Mars clad in adamant?
Who's fit on dust-stained Merion to descant?
Or who of Diomede to write,

Whom Pallas matched with gods in fight?

Of feasts I sing, and girls who war with males,
Fierce girls whose weapons are their finger-nails.
Alike in love or free from passion,
I'm wont to trifle in my fashion.

VII.

TO MUNATIUS PLANCUS.

Famed Rhodes or Mitylene some will please,
Or Ephesus, or Corinth on two seas;
Thebes dear to Bacchus, or the Delphic shrine,
Or Tempe's valleys, others deem divine.

Some sing the towers of virgin Pallas fair,
And think no wreath with olive can compare.

Mycenae many, Juno's grace to gain,

Will praise, and Argos, that horse-breeding plain.
But Lacedæmon has few charms for me,

And e'en Larissa's fertile fields I'd flee.

My heart on loud Albunea's fount is set;

Anio and Tibur's groves and orchards wet

With rushing streams I love. The south-wind's blast Will clear the sky and cease its showers at last.

So, too, remember, Plancus, to be wise,

And drown in cups the trouble life supplies;

Then fill your glass, though camps and arms delight you, Or your own Tibur's shady groves invite you.