Though first in rank Mæonian Homer's praise,

Who therefore dares contemn Pindaric lays?

The Cean Muse? -Alcæus' threatening strains?—

Or who the bold Stesichorus disdains?

Nor time can dim, nor fleeting years efface

The odes that boast Anacreon's sportive grace;

Still breathes the love-still burns the amorous fire

The Eolian maid intrusted to her lyre.

Not she alone the beauteous Spartan dame

Beheld the adulterer's curls with lustful flame,
The glittering vest, with gold embroidery seen,
The courtly retinue the kingly mien.
Not Teucer bent, alone, the Cretan bow,
Nor war, once only, laid an Ilion low;
Nor has Idomeneus display'd his might,

Nor Sthenelus only won the Muse in fight;
Nor Hector, nor Deïphobus, the first

In rapid fury on the battle burst,

'Mid hottest strife still eager to secure

Their children harmless, and their spouses pure.

In dark oblivion's depths condemn'd to stray,

Since mute for him the bard's immortal lay;

For hidden valour - in unnoted tomb

But shares of cowardice the inglorious doom.

Thy arduous deeds dark Lethe shall survive,

And thou, my Lollius, in these lines shalt live. Thine is the mind for statesman's prudence known, Unmov'd alike if Fortune smile or frown; Avenging greedy fraud; - nor sway'd by gold, Attracting all within its grasping hold:

Nor with the year thy consul's office dies, Surviving still, while honest virtuous wisePreferring honour to the proffer'd gain,

Thou spurn'st perfidious bribes with proud disdain; While thy pure soul, in honour's armour, glows With virtue's triumph o'er her blushing foes.

Not the rich man, of boundless wealth possess'd,

Can justly claim the attribute of "bless'd;"

To him more truly may the name be given,

Who wisely guards the choicest gifts of heaven;
Who pinching poverty will fearless face,

And while he dreads not death, yet loathes disgrace;
Eager in honour's cause his life to end,
Prepar'd to die for country or for friend.

When doom'd no more in beauty's pride to shine, When curls no longer o'er thy shoulders spread,

And from thy cheek the damask rose is fled,

Then, Ligurinus, gazing in thy glass,

-Viewing thy wizen'd face-thou'lt sigh " Alas! Why had the boy far other thoughts than now?

Or, with my present mind, why- why this wrinkled brow?"

ODE XI.

TO PHYLLIS.

ALBANIAN wines enrich my store,

In cask that boasts nine years and more;
And parsley in my garden grows,

To bind a wreath for Phyllis' brows.

There too the plenteous ivy twines,
With which her hair so gaily shines;
The silver goblets gleam around;

The altar, with chaste vervain bound,

Now thirsts for the empurpled flood
Of votive lambs' besprinkled blood;-
All-all is bustle, haste, and noise;
Here run the mingling girls and boys;

Now high the trembling flames are seen, The darkening smoke ascends between. But wouldst thou know the sweet delights, Phyllis, to which thy bard invites ?

Thou'rt ask'd to celebrate the ides,

-The day which April's month divides — April! which sea-born Venus claims,

Devoted to voluptuous games!

This day inspires with sacred mirth,

Far more than that which gave me birth; Since first on this auspicious morn

My own Mæcenas hail'd the dawn.