VIII.

TO MÆCENAS.

Aha, my wise accomplished friend,
I see you wonder without end
What Horace can be doing!
The first of March is not yet o'er,
And he, a lonely bachelor,

What mischief is he brewing?

What mean these flowers of varied hue, These censers and this charcoal too,

These knicknacks that you stare on?

I've vowed a feast and fatted calf
In memory of the tree that half
Sent Horace to old Charon.

Oft as returns this time of joy
I broach a cask of wine laid by
In Consul Tullus' day ;

So drink, Mæcenas, to your friend,
Preserved from such untimely end-
A bumper drink, I say.

Let's trim our lamp to last till morn,
Away with angry brawls, and scorn
On state affairs to pore;

From Cotiso's fierce bands we're freed,
And Mede has fallen out with Mede,
And wages civil war.

G

Cantabrians too, our ancient foes,
At last have yielded to our blows
And wear the victor's chains.
No more we dread the Scythian's ire,
His bow's unstrung-he'll soon retire
And leave to peace the plains.

Forbear awhile your thoughts to fix
On laws, and rights, and politics,
And public parts to play.

In present luck enjoyment find,
Dismiss all trouble from your mind,
Be happy while you may.

IX.

THE RECONCILIATION.

HE.

While I was dear, in days long flown,

And no more welcome wooer vied

For Lydia's kisses, Persia's throne

Had ne'er inspired my soul with pride.

SHE.

While you no other flame confessed,
Nor Chloe more than Lydia loved,
Then Lydia, courted and caressed,
Prouder than Roman Ilia moved.

HE.

But now for Chloe's charms I sigh,
Who sings and plays with graces rare ;
For Chloe gladly will I die,

So Fate her precious life would spare.

SHE.

'Tis Calaïs who enchants me so,
We're both inspired with mutual joy;

A twofold death I'd undergo

If heaven would save the darling boy.

HE.

What if the old, old love return,

And bind us two with lasting chain?

If Chloe's auburn locks I spurn,

And Lydia grace my home again?

SHE.

Though fairer he than any star,
You light as cork, and wilder too
Than Adria's restless wave-yet, ah !
With you I'll live, and die with you.

X.

TO LYCE.

E'en though on Tanais' distant shore

You dwelt, some barbarous chieftain's wife,

You'd pity me, before your door

Outstretched, a prey to storm and strife.

Hark to the creaking of the gate,
Hark to the rustling of the trees,
That wave around your halls of state;
The drifting snow begins to freeze.

Away with (Venus hates it) scorn;

The rope may slip, the wheel may turn ; You're no Penelope, nor born,

Like her, your suitors' prayers to spurn.

What though no gift, nor prayer, nor vow,
Nor lover's cheek as violet pale,
Nor yet your husband courting now
Some tuneful mistress can avail;

Your suppliants spare, oh, hard as oak,
And cruel as an Afric snake;

This rain I can't much longer brook,
Nor at your door can watch and wake.

XI.

TO THE LYRE.

O Mercury, who taught by song
Amphion rocks to move along,
And you, O shell, whose cunning art
Can music from seven strings impart.

Once dumb and dull, you're now confest,
In halls and shrines a welcome guest;
Then sing some tune with measure sweet,
Which Lyde's stubborn ears may greet.

Like a young filly ranging free
The plains, she loves her liberty;
No marriage bonds as yet her fate;
She's still too young to seek a mate.

Tigers and trees alike you sway,
And rivers in their course delay;
Your soothing arts had power to quell
The guardian of the gates of hell;

Yes, Cerberus' self, though on his crest
A hundred frightful serpents rest,
Though deadly breath and horrid gore
Forth from his three-tongued palate pour.

Ixion veered 'twixt smile and sigh,
And Tityus too-their urns stood dry
Awhile as Danaus' daughters stayed

Their hands to list the sounds you made.

Tell Lyde of their doom and guilt;

Of water ever poured and spilt

Through leaking casks-a well-known taleAnd of the Fates which never fail,

Which e'en in hell on sinners wait :

Wretches-what crime was e'er so great ?—
Wretches, each dared the murderous sword
To raise against her wedded lord.

One proved well worthy Hymen's fire-
A glorious traitor to her sire.

One out of many she, and long

Her name shall famous be in song.