These, dear Maecenas, _thou_ should'st paint, Each glory of thy Caesar's reign, In eloquence, that scorns restraint, And sweeter than the Poet's strain;

Show captive Kings, who from the fight Drag at his wheels their galling chain, And the pale lip indignant bite With mutter'd vengeance, wild and vain.

Enraptur'd by Licinia's grace, My Muse would these high themes decline, Charm'd that the heart, the form, the face Of matchless Excellence is thine.

Ah, happy Friend! for whom an eye, Of splendid, and resistless fire, Lays all its pointed arrows by, For the mild gleams of soft desire!

With what gay spirit does she foil The Pedant's meditated hit!

What happy archness in her smile!

What pointed meaning in her wit!

Her cheek how pure a crimson warms, When with the Nymphs, in circling line, Bending she twines her snowy arms, And dances round Diana's shrine[2]!

Maecenas, would'st not thou exchange The treasures gorgeous Persia pours, The wealth of Phrygia's fertile range, Or warm Arabia's spicy sh.o.r.es,

For one light ringlet of the hair, Which shades thy sweet Licinia's face, In that dear moment when the Fair, In flying from thy fond embrace,

Relenting turns her snowy neck, To meet thy kisses half their way, Or when her feign'd resentments check The ardors thy warm lips convey?

While in her eyes the languid light Betrays a yielding wish to prove, Amid her coy, yet playful flight, The pleasing force of fervent Love;

Or when, in gaily-frolic guise, She s.n.a.t.c.hes her fair self the kiss, E'en at the instant she denies Her Lover the requested bliss.

1: Of that artful caution, which marks the character of Horace, this Ode forms a striking instance. He declines the task appointed by his Patron, that of describing the Italian Wars, because he foresees that in its execution he must either disoblige the Emperor, and his Minister, by speaking too favorably of their Enemies, or offend some Friends, whom he yet retained amongst those, who had exerted themselves against the Caesars. Horace endeavours to soften the effect of this non-compliance by a warm panegyric upon Licinia, the betrothed bride of Maecenas. She is in other places called Terentia.

Both these names have affinity to those of her Brothers, Licinius, afterwards Augur, and her adopted Brother, Terentius.

Horace mentions _plainly_ the Numantian Wars, and those with Hannibal, but artfully speaks of those of Brutus, and Ca.s.sius, and of the Character of Antony, under _fabulous_ denomination, sufficiently understood by Augustus, and his Minister. Dacier justly observes how easy it is to discern, that by the Lapithae, and Giants, defeated by Hercules on the plains of Thessaly, the Poet means the Armies of Brutus, and Ca.s.sius, defeated by Augustus, almost in the same place, at the Battle of Philippi. He concludes also that by Hylaeus is meant Mark Antony, who a.s.sumed the name of Bacchus, and ruined himself by his profligate pa.s.sion for Cleopatra. Another Commentator observes, that as the Giants, and Lapithae, are said to have made the Palace of Saturn shake, so also did Brutus, and Ca.s.sius, and afterwards Mark Antony, make all Italy tremble, and that it is Rome itself that Horace would have to be understood by the _magnificent Palace of Saturn_. Some Critics seek to destroy all the common sense, beauty, and character of this Ode, by denying the allegoric interpretation; and also by insisting that Licinia was the Poet's _own_ Mistress, and not the mistress of his Patron. It had been absurd, and inconceivably unmeaning, if, when he was requested to sing the triumphs of Augustus in the Italian Wars, he should, during the brief mention of them, have adverted to old fables, uniting them, not as a simile, but in a line of continuation with the Numantian, and Carthaginian Wars; unless, beneath those fables, he shadowed forth the _Roman_ Enemies of Augustus.

The idea that Licinia was the Mistress of Horace, has surely little foundation:--for it were strange indeed if he could take pleasure in describing amorous familiarities between Maecenas, and the Person with whom _himself_ was in love. One of these Critics alledges, as the reason why this Lady could _not_ be the destined Bride of _Maecenas_, that it would have been as indiscreet in _him_ to have admitted Horace to be a witness of his pa.s.sion for Licinia-Terentia, as it would have been impertinent in the _Poet_, to have invaded the privacies of his Patron. It is not necessary, from this Ode, to conclude that Horace had _witnessed_ the tender scene he describes.

He might, without any hazard of imputed impertinence, venture to paint, from his imagination, the innocently playful endearments of betrothed Lovers. The picture was much more likely to _flatter_ than to _disgust_ the gay, and gallant Maecenas.

2: The Roman Ladies, according to ancient custom, danced with entwined arms, around the Altar of Diana, on the day of her Festival.

TO POSTHUMUS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE FOURTEENTH.

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years Unpausing glide away; Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers, Their fleeting pace delay; Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend, Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.

Time goads us on, relentless Sire!

On to the shadowy Shape, that stands Terrific on the funeral pyre, Waving the already kindled brands.-- Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed, Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.

Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood, That skirts the verge of mortal light, He chains the Forms, on earth that stood Proud, and gigantic in their might; That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.

In vain the bleeding field we shun, In vain the loud and whelming wave; And, as autumnal winds come on, And wither'd leaves bestrew the cave, Against their noxious blast, their sullen roar, In vain we pile the hearth, in vain we close the door.

The universal lot ordains We seek the black Cocytus' stream, That languid strays thro' dreary plains, Where cheerless fires perpetual gleam; Where the fell Brides their fruitless toil bemoan, And Sisyphus uprolls the still-returning stone.

Thy tender wife, thy large domain, Soon shalt thou quit, at Fate's command; And of those various trees, that gain Their culture from thy fost'ring hand, The Cypress only shall await thy doom, Follow its short-liv'd Lord, and shade his lonely tomb!

TO LYCE,

ON HER REFUSING TO ADMIT HIS VISITS.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE TENTH.

Now had you drank cold Tanais' wave, Whose streams the drear vale slowly lave, A barbarous Scythian's Bride, Yet, Lyce, might you grieve to hear Your Lover braves the winds severe, That pierce his aching side.

O listen to the howling groves, That labour o'er your proud alcoves, And hear the jarring door!

Mark how the star, at eve that rose, Has brightly glaz'd the settled snows, While every leaf is h.o.a.r!

Gay Venus hates this cold disdain;-- Cease then its rigors to maintain, That sprightly joys impede, Lest the strain'd cord, with which you bind The freedom of my amorous mind, In rapid whirl recede!

Born of a jocund Tuscan Sire, Did he transmit his ardent fire That, like Ulysses' Queen, His beauteous Daughter still should prove Relentless to the sighs of Love, With frozen heart and mien?--

If nor blue cheek of shivering Swain, Nor yet his richest gifts obtain Your smile, and soft'ning brow; Nor if a faithless Husband's rage For a gay Syren of the stage, And broken nuptial vow;

If weak e'en _Jealousy_ should prove To bend your heart to truer love, Yet pity these my pains, O Nymph, than oaks more hard, and fierce As snakes, that Afric's thickets pierce, Those terrors of the plains!

When heavy falls the pattering shower, And streaming spouts their torrents pour Upon my shrinking head, Not always shall wild Love command These limbs obsequiously to stand Beneath your dropping shed.

[1]TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BLANDUSIA.

BOOK THE THIRD, ODE THE THIRTEENTH.

Nymph of the stream, whose source perpetual pours The living waters thro' the sparkling sand, Cups of bright wine, enwreath'd with summer flowers, For rich libation, round thy brink shall stand, When on the morrow, at thy Bard's decree, A young and spotless Kid is sacrificed to thee.

He, while his brows the primal antlers swell, Conscious of strength, and gay of heart prepares To meet the female, and the foe repel.-- In vain he wishes, and in vain he dares!

His ardent blood thy pebbly bed shall stain, Till each translucent wave flows crimson to the plain.

In vain shall Sirius shake his fiery hairs O'er thy pure flood, with waving poplars veil'd, For thou, when most his sultry influence glares, Refreshing shade, and cooling draughts shalt yield To all the flocks, that thro' the valley stray, And to the wearied steers, unyok'd at closing day.

Now dear to Fame, sweet Fountain, shalt thou flow, Since to my lyre those breathing shades I sing That crown the hollow rock's inc.u.mbent brow, From which thy soft, loquacious waters spring.

To vie with streams Aonian be thy pride, As thro' Blandusia's Vale thy silver currents glide!

1: It was common with the Ancients to consecrate Fountains by a sacrifice, and vinous libations, poured from goblets crowned with flowers. Lively imaginations glow over the idea of such a beautiful ceremony.