amiss;

Though now they may, be sure of this,
Things will not always go
Not always bends in ire

Apollo his dread bow, but takes
The lyre and from her trance awakes
The Muse with touch of fire.

Though sorrows strike, and comrades shrink,
Yet never let your spirits sink,
But to yourself be true;

So wisely, when yourself you find
Scudding before too fair a wind,
Take in a reef or two.

ODE XI.

TO QUINTIUS HIRPINUS.

WHAT the warlike Cantabrian or Scyth may design,
Dear Quintius Hirpinus, ne'er stay to divine,
With the broad Adriatic 'twixt them and yourself,
You surely may lay all your fears on the shelf.

And fret not your soul with uneasy desires
For the wants of a life, which but little requires;
Youth and beauty fade fast, and age, sapless and

hoar,

Tastes of love and the sleep that comes lightly no

more.

Spring flowers bloom not always fresh, fragrant, and bright,

The moon beams not always full-orb'd on the night; Then wherefore should you, who are mortal, outwear Your soul with a profitless burden of care?

Say, why should we not, flung at ease 'neath this

pine,

Or a plane-tree's broad umbrage, quaff gayly our wine,

While the odours of Syrian nard, and the rose Breathe sweet from locks tipp'd, and just tipp'd with Time's snows.

Tis Bacchus, great Bacchus, alone has the art
To drive away cares, that are eating the heart.
What boy, then, shall best in the brook's deepest
pool

Our cups of the fiery Falernian cool?

And who from her home shall fair Lydè seduce, And bring to our revel that charming recluse? Bid her haste with her ivory lyre to the spot, Tying up her brown hair in a plain Spartan knot.

ODE XII.

TO MECENAS.

BID me not sing to my nerveless string
The wars of Numantia long and bloody,
Nor Hannibal dread, nor the ocean's bed
With the gore of our Punic foemen ruddy;

Nor the Lapithæ fierce, nor Hylæus flush'd
With wine, nor the earth-born brood Titanic,
Whom the death-dealing hand of Alcides crush'd,
Though they smote the Saturnian halls with panic.

And thou, my Mæcenas, shalt fitlier tell

The battles of Cæsar in stateliest story,

Tell of kings, who defied us with menaces fell,
Led on through our streets in the triumph's glory.

My muse to Licymnia alone replies,

To her warbling voice, that divinely sways thee, To the gleam of her flashing and lustrous eyes, And true heart that passion for passion repays thee.

Ah, well doth the roundel beseem her charms,
Sparkling her wit, and, with loveliest vestals,
Most worthy is she to enlace her arms

In the dances of Dian's hilarious festals.

Would you, friend, for Phrygia's hoarded gold,
Or all that Achæmenes self possesses,
Or e'en for what Araby's coffers hold,

Barter one lock of her clustering tresses,

While she bends down her throat to your burning kiss,

Or, fondly cruel, the joy denies you,

She'd have you snatch, or at times the bliss Herself will snatch, and with joy surprise you?

6