LEUCONOE, cease presumptuous to inquire Of grave Diviner, if successive years Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre, For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears!

Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow, Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;

If _many_ winters on the naked trees Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost, Or this for us the _last_, that from the seas Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast.-- Short since thou know'st the longest vital line, Nurse the _near_ hope, and pour the rosy wine.

E'en while we speak our swiftly-pa.s.sing Youth Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion's sh.o.r.e; Then shall the Future terrify, or sooth, Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore?

The Morrow's faithless promise disavow, And seize, thy only boast, the GOLDEN NOW.

TO APOLLO.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-FIRST.

What asks the POET, when he pours His first libation in the Delphic Bowers?

Duteous before the altar standing, With lively hope his soul expanding, O! what demands he, when the crimson wine Flows sparkling from the vase, and laves the golden shrine?

Not the rich and swelling grain That yellows o'er Sardinia's isle; Nor snowy herds, slow winding thro' the plain, When warm Calabria's rosy mornings smile; Nor gold, nor gems, that India yields, Nor yet those fair and fertile fields, Which, thro' their flow'ry banks as calm he glides, The silent [1]Liris' azure stream divides.

Let those, for whom kind fortune still Leads lavish tendrils o'er the sloping hill, Let such, with care their vineyard dressing, Their bursting grapes a.s.siduous pressing, Gather, self-gratulant, the costly store, And of the future year propitious suns implore!

May luscious wines, in cups of gold, Oft for the wealthy Merchant flow!

Nor let cold Thrift those plenteous draughts withhold That prosperous Commerce shall again bestow.

The flowing bowl he safely drains, Since every favouring G.o.d ordains That more than [2]once, within the circling year, His prow shall o'er the smooth Atlantic steer.

_Me_, let tawny olives feed!

_Me_, lenient mallows from the simple mead!

Son of Latona, grant the blessing, That, a cloudless mind possessing, And not infirm of frame, in soft decay, Cheer'd by the breathing lyre, my life may pa.s.s away!

1: _Liris_--a beautiful river of remarkably placid current. It rises near Sora, a city of Latium, which it divides from Campania.

2: The Poet deems it a peculiar mark of the favor of the Deities when the Merchant is enabled safely to make repeated voyages in one year through hazardous seas.

TO HIS ATTENDANT.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

Boy, not in these Autumnal bowers Shalt thou the Persian Vest dispose, Of artful fold, and rich brocade; Nor tie in gaudy knots the sprays and flowers.

Ah! search not where the latest rose Yet lingers in the sunny glade; Plain be the vest, and simple be the braid!

I charge thee with the myrtle wreath Not one resplendent bloom entwine; We both become that modest band, As stretch'd my vineyard's ample shade beneath, Jocund I quaff the rosy wine; While near me thou shalt smiling stand, And fill the sparkling cup with ready hand.

TO SALl.u.s.t.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE SECOND.

Dark in the Miser's chest, in h.o.a.rded heaps, Can Gold, my SALl.u.s.t, one true joy bestow, Where sullen, dim, and valueless it sleeps, Whose worth, whose charms, from circulation flow?

Ah! _then_ it shines attractive on the thought, Rises, with such resistless influence fraught As puts to flight pale Fear, and Scruple cold, Till Life, e'en Life itself, becomes less dear than Gold.

Rome, of this power aware, thy honor'd name O Proculeius! ardently adores, Since thou didst bid thy ruin'd Brothers claim A filial right in all thy well-earn'd stores.-- To make the _good_ deed deathless as the _great_, Yet fearing for her plumes [1]Icarian fate, This Record, Fame, of precious trust aware, Shall long, on cautious wing, solicitously bear.

And thou, my SALl.u.s.t, more complete thy sway, Restraining the insatiate l.u.s.t of gain, Than should'st thou join, by Conquest's proud essay, Iberian hills to Libya's sandy plain; Than if the Carthage sultry Afric boasts, With that which smiles on Europe's lovelier coasts, Before the Roman arms, led on by thee, Should bow the yielding head, the tributary knee.

See bloated Dropsy added strength acquire As the parch'd lip the frequent draught obtains; Indulgence feeds the never-quench'd desire, That loaths the viand, and the goblet drains.

Nor could exhausted floods the thirst subdue Till that dire Cause, which spreads the livid hue O'er the pale Form, with watry languor swell'd, From the polluted veins, by medicine, be expell'd.

Virtue, whate'er the dazzled Vulgar dream, Denies Phraates, seated on thy throne, Immortal Cyrus, Joy's internal gleam, And thus she checks the Crowd's mistaken tone; "He, only he, who, calmly pa.s.sing by, Not once shall turn the pure, unwishing eye On heaps of ma.s.sy gold, that near him glare, My amaranthine wreath, my diadem shall wear."

1: _Penna metuente solvi_ must surely be allusive to the dissolving pinions of Icarus--and mean, that deeds of private generosity are apt to melt from the recollection of mankind; while those of what is called heroic exertion go down to Posterity. For this idea of the pa.s.sage the Translator was indebted to a learned Friend.

TO THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE.

HORACE, BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE THIRD, IMITATED.

OCTOBER 1796.

Conscious the mortal stamp is on thy breast, O, ERSKINE! still an equal mind maintain, That wild Ambition ne'er may goad thy rest, Nor Fortune's smile awake thy triumph vain,

Whether thro' toilsome tho' renowned years 'T is thine to trace the Law's perplexing maze, Or win the SACRED SEALS, whose awful cares To high decrees devote thy honor'd days.

Where silver'd Poplars with the stately Pines Mix their thick branches in the summer sky, And the cool stream, whose trembling surface shines, Laboriously oblique, is hurrying by;

There let thy duteous Train the banquet bring, In whose bright cups the liquid ruby flows, As Life's warm season, on expanded wing, Presents her too, too transitory rose;

While every Muse and Grace auspicious wait, As erst thy Handmaids, when, with brow serene, Gay thou didst rove where Buxton views elate A golden Palace deck her savage scene[1].

At frequent periods woo th' inspiring Band Before thy days their summer-course have run, While, with clos'd shears, the fatal Sisters stand, Nor aim to cut the brilliant thread they spun.

Precarious Tenant of that gay Retreat, Fann'd by pure gales on Hampstead's airy downs, Where filial troops for thee delighted wait, And their fair Mother's smile thy banquet crowns!

Precarious Tenant!--shortly thou may'st leave These, and propitious Fortune's golden h.o.a.rd; Then spare not thou the stores, that shall receive, When set thy orb, a less ill.u.s.trious Lord.

What can it then avail thee that thy pleas Charm'd every ear with TULLY's periods bland?

Or that the subject Pa.s.sions they could seize, And with the thunder of the GREEK command?

What can it then avail thee that thy fame Threw tenfold l.u.s.tre on thy n.o.ble Line?