BOOK IV. ODE I. TO VENUS. WHY, Venus, after long delay, I am not now - ah! would I were! Such as kind Cinara could inspire; Cease, cruel queen of soft desire, Cease with too gentle chain to bind Whom twice five lustres leave behind. Go where more youthful prayers invoke — With purple swans thy airy yoke! And wouldst thou pierce a fitter heart, Let Paulus' tender bosom smart ; A noble, and a comely youth, Who pleads the anxious cause of truth! Thy myrtle-wreaths shall scatter wide; Nor is the reed - harmonious - mute. But me nor woman fair, nor boy, Nor the fond hope of mutual joy, Nor wine's contention pleases now; Nor with fresh flowers to bind my brow. But why, ah! Ligurinus, why Do tears at times bedew mine eye? Why does my fluent tongue refuse Its wonted eloquence to use? Oft at the midnight hour I seem To clasp thee in the illusive dream, To chase thee flying o'er the Campus wide, Or - cruel - gliding o'er the rolling tide. N ODE II, TO ANTONIUS IULUS. THE bard, who would like Pindar sing, Iulus, strives with waxen wing, Like Icarus, who fondly gave His name to the cerulean wave. As rush the swollen rivers down, By rains beyond their boundaries grown, So foams the deep-mouth'd Pindar's song, So rushes measureless along: Secure Apollo's wreath to bear, Or if, with new-coin'd terms, he dare The boldest dithyrambic verse, And lawless numbers to rehearse; Or if to gods his songs extend, And monarchs, who from gods descend, And quench'd Chimera's fiery breath; Or if he sing the Elean prize, Which raises to the loftiest skies, Or wrestler bold, or conquering steed, -Great Pindar's muse their proudest meed! Or the young lord if he deplore, Whom death from weeping fair-one bore, Whose strength-whose mind—whose golden days Quit Orcus now for Pindar's lays. Dircæan swans the breezes bear, Through floating clouds, in highest air; But, like the small Matinian bee, Who toils, Antonius, patiently, |