ODE XX.

TO PYRRHUS.

WHAT man is he so mad, as dare
From Moorish lioness to tear

Her cubs? My Pyrrhus, dost not see,
How perilous the task must be ?

Soon, soon thy heart will fail, and thou
Wilt shun the strife awaits thee now;

When through the youths, that throng to stay
Her course, she fiercely makes her way,
To find Nearchus, peerless youth,
O rare the struggle, small the ruth,
Till one or other yields, and he
Her prize, or thine, at last shall be !

Meanwhile, whilst for the frenzied fair
Thou dost thy deadliest shafts prepare,
And she whets her appalling teeth,
The umpire of the fray beneath
His heel, so gossip says, will crush
The palm, and spread, to meet the rush
Of breezes cool, the odorous hair
That clusters round his shoulders fair,
Like Nireus, he or whom of yore
Jove's bird from watery Ida bore!

ODE XXI.

TO A JAR OF WINE.

O PRECIOUS crock, whose summers date, Like mine, from Manlius' consulate,

I wot not whether in your

breast Lie maudlin wail or merry jest,

Or sudden choler, or the fire
Of tipsy Love's insane desire,
Or fumes of soft caressing sleep,

Or what more potent charms you keep,
But this I know, your ripened power
Befits some choicely festive hour.
A cup peculiarly mellow

Corvinus asks; so come, old fellow,
From your time-honoured bin descend,
And let me gratify my friend!
No churl is he, your charms to slight,
Though most intensely erudite :

And even old Cato's worth, we know,
Took from good wine a nobler glow.

Your magic power of wit can spread
The halo round a dullard's head,
Can make the sage forget his care,
His bosom's inmost thoughts unbare,
And drown his solemn-faced pretence
Beneath your blithesome influence.
Bright hope you bring and vigour back
To minds outworn upon the rack,

And put such courage in the brain,
As makes the poor be men again,
Whom neither tyrants' wrath affrights,
Nor all their bristling satellites.

Bacchus, and Venus, so that she Bring only frank festivity, With sister Graces in her train, Entwining close in lovely chain, And gladsome tapers' living light, Shall spread your treasures o'er the night, Till Phoebus the red East unbars,

And puts to rout the trembling stars.

ODE XXII.

TO DIANA.

HAIL, guardian maid Of mount and forest glade, Who, thrice invoked, dost bow Thine ear, and sendest aid To girls in labour with the womb, And snatchest them from an untimely tomb, Goddess three-formèd thou!

I consecrate as thine

This overhanging pine,
My villa's shade;

There, as my years decline,

The blood of boar so young, that he

Dreams only yet of sidelong strokes, by me Shall joyfully be paid!

ODE XXIII.

TO PHIDYLE.

Ir thou, at each new moon, thine upturn'd palms,
My rustic Phidyle, to heaven shalt lift,
The Lares soothe with steam of fragrant balms,
A sow, and fruits new-pluck'd, thy simple gift;

Nor venom❜d blast shall nip thy fertile vine,
Nor mildew blight thy harvest in the ear;
Nor shall thy flocks, sweet nurslings, peak and pine,
When apple-bearing Autumn chills the year.

The victim mark'd for sacrifice, that feeds
On snow-capp'd Algidus, in leafy lane
Of oak and ilex, or on Alba's meads,

With its rich blood the pontiff's axe may stain;

Thy little gods for humbler tribute call,

Than blood of many victims; twine for them Of rosemary a simple coronal,

And the lush myrtle's frail and fragrant stem.

The costliest sacrifice that wealth can make
From the incensed Penates less commands
A soft response, than doth the poorest cake,
If on the altar laid with spotless hands.