In the cold air the huntsman's life,

-Unmindful of his tender wife,

When flies the stag the hounds before,
Or bursts through toils the Marsian boar.

May ivy learning's prize-be mine,

And raise me to the gods divine;

And shadowy groves exclude the throng Where Satyrs dance the nymphs among ; If still resound Euterpe's strains,

Nor Polyhymnia's hand disdains,

- Unkind the Lesbian harp to grace:

But if your poet's name you place
With lyric bards, my head on high
Shall proudly strike the starry sky.

ENOUGH of grievous hail and snow
Has Jove now pour'd on earth below,
Whose red right-hand our town appals,
And shakes the temple's towering walls.

Trembles the world lest Pyrrha's reign Rise, of new monsters to complain; When Proteus' herds, on deluge-tide, Gamboll❜d upon the mountain side;

When fish on highest elms were seen, Clinging where recent doves had been;

And timid antlers - swimming fled,

The waters bubbling o'er the head.

We've seen the Tiber's yellow tide
Rush-furious from the Tuscan side,
Towards Numa's royal buildings flow,

And Vesta's temple overthrow.

The uxorious stream-with rapid wave
Avenges thus his Ilia's grave;

And spite of Jove his current pours,

What god shall now the people's prayers

Call to the ruin'd state's affairs?

What hymn the sacred virgins raise

To Vesta - heedless of our lays?

To whom shall Jove assign the fate
The crimes of Rome to expiate?

Prophetic Phoebus, come, we pray,
Enrob'd in clouds - thy bright array!

Or, Venus, with thy rosy smile,

Whom Mirth and Love attend the while;

Or thou-our founder

turn thy face

On thy neglected sons and race,

Tir'd with thy sport-too long, alas!— Whom shouts delight, and helms of brass, And Moorish soldiery, whose eyes

Gloat on the foeman, as he dies:

Or if, fair Maia's son, thy wing,
And alter'd form a youth should bring,
Content on earth with mortal fame,

- Cæsar's avenger for thy name,

Oh! late be thy return to heaven!

Long to thy Roman people given !
Nor swifter breeze to other climes
Transport thee-sooner for our crimes!

Our triumphs still-oh! still inspire, Hail'd as our sovereign and our sire! Nor need we dread the incursive Medes, While Cæsar's arm our warfare leads.

ODE III.

TO THE SHIP IN WHICH VIRGIL SAILED TO ATHENS.

So may the queen of Cyprus' isle,
So Helen's radiant brothers smile,
So Eolus waft thee o'er the seas,
With soft Iapyx' favouring breeze,
As thou, my ship, shalt safely land
Our Virgil on the Attic strand,