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,

Though first in rank Mæonian Homer's praise,
Who therefore dares contemn Pindaric lays?

The Cean Muse? —Alcaus' 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 Æolian 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.

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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.

Before Atrides many a hero brave,

Unwept unknown has sought the shadowy

grave;

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

Preferring honour to the proffer'd gain,

wise

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.