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
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,

brow.

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,
Who dealt the monster-centaurs death,

And quench'd Chimara'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,

And labours, with industrious lip,

The flower of grateful thyme to sip,

So, round the shades where Tiber flows, Laborious verses I compose.

Thou- poet of superior lays —

Great Cæsar's laurel'd brow shalt praise, Whene'er, upon the sacred height,

He drags in chains Sicambrian might;

Than whom the Fates, or gods on earth Have nought bestow'd of greater birth, Nor e'er shall give, though, as of old, The earth resume its pristine gold.

Thou shalt the festive days proclaim,
The joyous city's public game

For Cæsar's safety - Cæsar's life,

The forum, freed from legal strife!

My voice its tribute then shall bring, -If aught I worthily may sing"O blest, O lauded day," my strain, "Which brings Augustus home again!"

"Io triumphe!" be our song,

Repeated, as we move along:

My vows a tender steerling need,

Which now without its mother strays,
And in the fattening pasture plays :

Like the young moon his bending horns, When her third rising feebly dawns; His brow displays a spot like snow,

A dun his limbs and body show.