ODE VI.

IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA.

THOU god, who art potent that tongue to chastise,
Which e'er by its vaunts the Immortals defies,
As well as the sad offspring of Niobe knew,
And Tityus, profanest of ravishers too,

And Phthian Achilles, who well-nigh o'ercame
Proud Troy, of all warriors the foremost in fame,
Yet ne'er with thyself to be match'd; for though he
Was begotten of Thetis, fair nymph of the sea,
And shook the Dardanian turrets with fear,

As he crash'd through the fray with his terrible spear,

Like a pine, by the biting steel struck and down cast,

Or cypress o'erthrown by the hurricane blast,
Far prostrate he fell, and in Teucrian dust
His locks all dishevell❜d ignobly were thrust.
He would not, shut up in the horse, that was feign'd
To be vow'd to the rites of Minerva, have deign'd
In their ill-timed carouse on the Trojans to fall,
When the festival dance gladden'd Priam's high
hall;

No! He to the captives remorseless, O shame!
In the broad face of day to Greek fagot and flame
Their babes would have flung, yea, as ruthless a

doom

Would have wreak'd upon those who still slept in

the womb,

218 ODE VI. IN PRAISE OF APOLLO AND DIANA.

If won by sweet Venus' entreaties and thine,
The Sire of the Gods, with a bounty benign,
A city had not to Eneas allow'd,

To stand through the ages triumphant and proud! Thou, who taught'st keen Thalia the plectrum to guide,

Thou, who lavest thy tresses in Xanthus's tide,
O beardless Agyieus, uphold, I implore,

The fame of the Daunian Muse evermore,

For 't was thou didst inspire me with poesy's flame, Thou gav❜st me the art of the bard, and his name!

Ye virgins, the foremost in rank and in race, Ye boys, who the fame of your ancestry grace, Fair wards of the Delian goddess, whose bow Lays the swift-footed lynx and the antelope low, To the Lesbian measure keep time with your feet, And sing in accord with my thumb in its beat; Hymn the son of Latona in cadence aright, Hymn duly the still-waxing lamp of the night, That with plentiful fruitage the season doth cheer, And speeds the swift months on to girdle the year!

And thou, who art chief of the chorus to-day, Soon borne home a bride in thy beauty shalt say, "When the cyclical year brought its festival days, My voice led the hymn of thanksgiving and praise, So sweet the Immortals to hear it were fain, And 't was Horace the poet who taught me the strain!"

ODE VII.

TO TORQUATUS.

THE snows have fled, and to the meadows now Returns their grass, their foliage to the trees; Earth dons another garb, and dwindling low Between their wonted banks the rivers seek the

seas.

The Graces with the Nymphs their dances twine,
Unzoned, and heedless of the amorous air;
Read in the shifting year, my friend, a sign,
That change and death attend all human hope
and care.

Winter dissolves beneath the breath of Spring, Spring yields to Summer, which shall be no more, When Autumn spreads her fruits thick-clustering, And then comes Winter back, - bleak, icy-dead, and hoar.

But moons revolve, and all again is bright:
We, when we fall, as fell the good and just
Eneas, wealthy Tullus, Ancus wight,

Are but a nameless shade, and some poor grains of dust.

Who knows, if they who all our Fates control,
Will add a morrow to thy brief to-day?

Then think of this,
Thy hand doth give

cious sway.

What to a friendly soul
shall 'scape thine heir's rapa-

When thou, Torquatus, once hast vanish'd hence,
And o'er thee Minos' great decree is writ,
Nor ancestry, nor fire-lipp'd eloquence,

Nor all thy store of wealth to give thee back were fit.

For even Diana from the Stygian gloom
Her chaste Hippolytus no more may gain,
And dear Pirithous must bide his doom,

For Theseus' arm is frail to rend dark Lethe's chain.

ODE VIII.

TO MARCUS CENSORINUS.

CUPS on my friends I would freely bestow,
Dear Censorinus, and bronzes most rare,
Tripods carved richly, in Greece long ago
The guerdons of heroes, for them I would spare;

Nor should the worst of my gifts be thine own,
If in my household art's marvels were rife,
Hero or god, wrought by Scopas in stone,
Or by Parrhasius coloured to life.

But unto me no such dainties belong,
Nor of them either hast thou any dearth:
Song is thy joy, I can give thee a song,
Teach, too, the gift's all unmatchable worth.

Not marbles graven with glorious scrolls
Penn'd by a nation with gratitude due,
Records, in which our great warriors' souls
Tameless by death ever flourish anew!

Not flying enemies, no, nor with shame
Hannibal's menaces back on him hurl❜d,
Not fraudful Carthage expiring in flame,
Blazon his glory more bright to the world,