ODE XVI.

TO TYNDARIS.

O, THAN fair mother fairer still,
Put to whatever end you will
Those slanderous lines, compos'd by me,

Or in the flame or Adria's sea.

Not Cybele so the bosom fires,
Nor priests the Pythian god inspires,
Not Bacchus, as his votaries pass,
Nor Corybantes' sounding brass,

As direful rage; which wrecking main,

Nor Noric weapons can restrain;

Nor furious flame, nor mighty Jove

-Terrific, thundering from above.

To our first clay Prometheus brought

A particle, from all sides sought;
And of the lion's rage a part
Implanted in the human heart.

Rage caused Thyestes' fearful fall;
Through rage the loftiest city's wall,

Then calm thy wrath : my fervid breast,

In pleasing youth, like rage possess'd;
Which urg'd me, passionate, along,

To scribble that Iambic song.

From grave to gay my theme shall change, With thee in friendship's ties to range:

Thou shalt my former mind restore,

And I recant, and write no more!

D

ODE XVII.

TO TYNDARIS.

To sweet Lucretilis, for change,
The nimble Faunus loves to range,
Leaving Lycæan mount behind,

To guard my goats from heat and wind.
The wives of the unsavoury mate,
In safest groves securely wait,
Reposing where the strawberry hides,
Or where the fragrant thyme abides.
Nor fear the kids the serpents green,
Nor fly, when Mars's wolves are seen;
Whene'er the vales, and polish'd blocks
Of sweet Ustica's sloping rocks
With pastoral pipes' melodious sound,
My Tyndaris, shall echo round.

The gods defend me :—

My piety

nor refuse

my votive Muse.

Here too by thee shall plenty's horn,
With rural honours full, be borne ;

Safe in the vale from Sirius' heat,
On Teian strings shalt thou repeat
Penelope, and Circe's fame,

- The victims of a common flame.

Here, quaffing harmless Lesbian wine, 'Mid well-fill'd cups, in shade recline Nor Semele's infuriate son

;

With Mars in maddening conflict run. No fear lest Cyrus' wanton might Should seize thee in unequal fight; Thy inoffensive garments tear,

And rend the chaplet from thy hair.

ODE XVIII.

TO VARUS.

VARUS, the sacred vine best pays thy toil
Near Catilus' walls, and Tibur's mellow soil.

For sober wights what hardships Jove prepares !

Wine — wine alone dispels our biting cares.

By wine inspir'd, who rails at want or war?

Who sings not Venus' charms, and Bacchus' car ? lest moderate orgies we exceed

But see

Where drunken Lapithæ, and Centaurs bleed.

Thus angry Bacchus taught the Thracian throng, Whose greedy lust confounded right with wrong. Not thee unwilling-Bacchus, will I rouse,

Nor rites reveal, conceal'd by various boughs.