ODE VII.

TO TORQUATUS.

THE Snows dissolve;-fresh culture clothes the plain,
And budding foliage gems the boughs again;
Earth's varied face the changing seasons show,
And lessening streams through verdant margins flow:

With sisters twain the grace, and nymphs advance,

And - naked

The year

dare to lead the jocund dance.

the hour which steals the joyous day,

Forbids our mortal hopes too far to stray.

The zephyrs mild dispel the wintry blast;

Summer succeeds to spring; to flit as fast,

When fruitful autumn its abundance rears;

And lo! the sluggish winter reappears!

Revolving moons their wanings still repair;
But we, alas! when once descended there,

Where good Æneas, Tullus, Ancus lie,

Who who can tell, if heaven's supernal sway Shall add a morrow to the passing day? Whate'er thy fancy's frolic mood shall shape, All shall thy heir's remorseless hands escape:

Once touch'd the confines of the dismal tomb
Let Minos once pronounce thy awful doom
Nor birth, Torquatus, nor thy eloquence,
Not e'en thy virtue, shall recal thee thence.

The chaste Hippolytus Diana's might

In vain would rescue from the realms of night; While Theseus' friendly power essay'd in vain To break Pirithous' Lethæan chain.

ODE VIII.

TO C. MARTIUS CENSORINUS.

MY Censorinus, I would send

A burnish'd bowl to every friend;
Or tripod, that of valour speaks,

- The guerdon of courageous Greeks!
Nor thee the poorest gift should bless,
Did I those works of art possess,
Which from the Ephesian Scopas came,
Or boast Parrhasius' ancient name;
This, skill'd to carve the Parian stone,
That, for his mimic pencil known;
Or if the immortal gods they trace,
Or hero's scarce less godlike face.

To no such gifts my means aspire,
Nor you such rarities require;
But verse delights, and verse I sing,
And point the price of what I bring.
Not busts, by whose immortal lines
Restor'd to life - the hero shines,

Nor Hannibal, retreating foil'd,
Whose threats upon himself recoil'd,
Not Carthage, 'mid devouring flame,
Wider extends his praise - his fame

Surnam'd from Afric's conquer'd plain,
Than sweet Calabrian Muses' strain.
Oh! should you hush your poet's lays,
Who - who should sing your hero's praise?
Or what were Mars' and Ilia's pride,
Should silence great Quirinus hide?
Eacus, snatch'd from Stygian waves,
The poet's favouring influence saves;
And sacred in poetic song -

He rules the blissful isles among.

The Muse forbids that man to die,

Whose praise deserves attains the sky!

Alcides thus his labours done

The envied feasts of Jove has won;

Thus the twin-stars in safety keep

The shatter'd bark that sails the deep;

Thus Bacchus wreathes his vine-crown'd hair, And perfects still his votary's prayer.

ODE IX.

TO LOLLIUS.

THINK not my lays perchance shall live no more, Though lisp'd at first by Aufid's echoing shore;

Lays, over which the lyre's melodious string,