What the time from Inachus To Codrus, who in patriot battle fell, Who were sprung from Aeacus, And how men fought at Ilion,--this you tell.

What the wines of Chios cost, Who with due heat our water can allay, What the hour, and who the host To give us house-room,--this you will not say.

Ho, there! wine to moonrise, wine To midnight, wine to our new augur too!

Nine to three or three to nine, As each man pleases, makes proportion true.

Who the uneven Muses loves, Will fire his dizzy brain with three times three; Three once told the Grace approves; She with her two bright sisters, gay and free, Shrinks, as maiden should, from strife: But I'm for madness. What has dull'd the fire Of the Berecyntian fife?

Why hangs the flute in silence with the lyre?

Out on n.i.g.g.ard-handed boys!

Rain showers of roses; let old Lycus hear, Envious churl, our senseless noise, And she, our neighbour, his ill-sorted fere.

You with your bright cl.u.s.tering hair, Your beauty, Telephus, like evening's sky, Rhoda loves, as young, as fair; I for my Glycera slowly, slowly die.

XXI.

O NATE MEc.u.m.

O born in Manlius' year with me, Whate'er you bring us, plaint or jest, Or pa.s.sion and wild revelry, Or, like a gentle wine-jar, rest; Howe'er men call your Ma.s.sic juice, Its broaching claims a festal day; Come then; Corvinus bids produce A mellower wine, and I obey.

Though steep'd in all Socratic lore He will not slight you; do not fear.

They say old Cato o'er and o'er With wine his honest heart would cheer.

Tough wits to your mild torture yield Their treasures; you unlock the soul Of wisdom and its stores conceal'd, Arm'd with Lyaeus' kind control.

'Tis yours the drooping heart to heal; Your strength uplifts the poor man's horn; Inspired by you, the soldier's steel, The monarch's crown, he laughs to scorn.

Liber and Venus, wills she so, And sister Graces, ne'er unknit, And living lamps shall see you flow Till stars before the sunrise flit.

XXII.

MONTIUM CUSTOS.

Guardian of hill and woodland, Maid, Who to young wives in childbirth's hour Thrice call'd, vouchsafest sovereign aid, O three-form'd power!

This pine that shades my cot be thine; Here will I slay, as years come round, A youngling boar, whose tusks design The side-long wound.

XXIII.

COELO SUPINAS.

If, Phidyle, your hands you lift To heaven, as each new moon is born, Soothing your Lares with the gift Of slaughter'd swine, and spice, and corn, Ne'er shall Scirocco's bane a.s.sail Your vines, nor mildew blast your wheat, Ne'er shall your tender younglings fail In autumn, when the fruits are sweet.

The destined victim 'mid the snows Of Algidus in oakwoods fed, Or where the Alban herbage grows, Shall dye the pontiff's axes red; No need of butcher'd sheep for you To make your homely prayers prevail; Give but your little G.o.ds their due, The rosemary twined with myrtle frail.

The sprinkled salt, the votive meal, As soon their favour will regain, Let but the hand be pure and leal, As all the pomp of heifers slain.

XXIV.

INTACTIS OPULENTIOR.

Though your buried wealth surpa.s.s The unsunn'd gold of Ind or Araby, Though with many a ponderous ma.s.s You crowd the Tuscan and Apulian sea, Let Necessity but drive Her wedge of adamant into that proud head, Vainly battling will you strive To 'scape Death's noose, or rid your soul of dread.

Better life the Scythians lead, Trailing on waggon wheels their wandering home, Or the hardy Getan breed, As o'er their vast unmeasured steppes they roam; Free the crops that bless their soil; Their tillage wearies after one year's s.p.a.ce; Each in turn fulfils his toil; His period o'er, another takes his place.

There the step-dame keeps her hand From guilty plots, from blood of orphans clean; There no dowried wives command Their feeble lords, or on adulterers lean.

Theirs are dowries not of gold, Their parents' worth, their own pure chast.i.ty, True to one, to others cold; They dare not sin, or, if they dare, they die.

O, whoe'er has heart and head To stay our plague of blood, our civic brawls, Would he that his name be read "Father of Rome" on lofty pedestals, Let him chain this lawless will, And be our children's hero! cursed spite!

Living worth we envy still, Then seek it with strain'd eyes, when s.n.a.t.c.h'd from sight.

What can sad laments avail Unless sharp justice kill the taint of sin?

What can laws, that needs must fail Shorn of the aid of manners form'd within, If the merchant turns not back From the fierce heats that round the tropic glow, Turns not from the regions black With northern winds, and hard with frozen snow; Sailors override the wave, While guilty poverty, more fear'd than vice, Bids us crime and suffering brave, And shuns the ascent of virtue's precipice?

Let the Capitolian fane, The favour'd goal of yon vociferous crowd, Aye, or let the nearest main Receive our gold, our jewels rich and proud: Slay we thus the cause of crime, If yet we would repent and choose the good: Ours the task to take in time This baleful l.u.s.t, and crush it in the bud.

Ours to mould our weakling sons To n.o.bler sentiment and manlier deed: Now the n.o.ble's first-born shuns The perilous chase, nor learns to sit his steed: Set him to the unlawful dice, Or Grecian hoop, how skilfully he plays!

While his sire, mature in vice, A friend, a partner, or a guest betrays, Hurrying, for an heir so base, To gather riches. Money, root of ill, Doubt it not, still grows apace: Yet the scant heap has somewhat lacking still.

XXV.

QUO ME, BACCHE.

Whither, Bacchus, tear'st thou me, Fill'd with thy strength? What dens, what forests these, Thus in wildering race I see?

What cave shall hearken to my melodies, Tuned to tell of Caesar's praise And throne him high the heavenly ranks among?

Sweet and strange shall be my lays, A tale till now by poet voice unsung.

As the Evian on the height, Housed from her sleep, looks wonderingly abroad, Looks on Thrace with snow-drifts white, And Rhodope by barbarous footstep trod, So my truant eyes admire The banks, the desolate forests. O great King Who the Naiads dost inspire, And Bacchants, strong from earth huge trees to wring!

Not a lowly strain is mine, No mere man's utterance. O, 'tis venture sweet Thee to follow, G.o.d of wine, Making the vine-branch round thy temples meet!

XXVI.

VIRI PUELLIS.

For ladies's love I late was fit, And good success my warfare blest, But now my arms, my lyre I quit, And hang them up to rust or rest.

Here, where arising from the sea Stands Venus, lay the load at last, Links, crowbars, and artillery, Threatening all doors that dared be fast.

O G.o.ddess! Cyprus owns thy sway, And Memphis, far from Thracian snow: Raise high thy lash, and deal me, pray, That haughty Chloe just one blow!

XXVII.