Ah Censorinus! to my comrades true Rich cups, rare bronzes, gladly would I send: Choice tripods from Olympia on each friend Would I confer, choicer on none than you, Had but my fate such gems of art bestow'd As cunning Scopas or Parrhasius wrought, This with the brush, that with the chisel taught To image now a mortal, now a G.o.d.

But these are not my riches: your desire Such luxury craves not, and your means disdain: A poet's strain you love; a poet's strain Accept, and learn the value of the lyre.

Not public gravings on a marble base, Whence comes a second life to men of might E'en in the tomb: not Hannibal's swift flight, Nor those fierce threats flung back into his face, Not impious Carthage in its last red blaze, In clearer light sets forth his spotless fame, Who from crush'd Afric took away--a name, Than rude Calabria's tributary lays.

Let silence hide the good your hand has wrought.

Farewell, reward! Had blank oblivion's power Dimm'd the bright deeds of Romulus, at this hour, Despite his sire and mother, he were nought.

Thus Aeacus has 'scaped the Stygian wave, By grace of poets and their silver tongue, Henceforth to live the happy isles among.

No, trust the Muse: she opes the good man's grave, And lifts him to the G.o.ds. So Hercules, His labours o'er, sits at the board of Jove: So Tyndareus' offspring shine as stars above, Saving lorn vessels from the yawning seas: So Bacchus, with the vine-wreath round his hair, Gives prosperous issue to his votary's prayer.

IX.

NE FORTE CREDAS.

Think not those strains can e'er expire, Which, cradled 'mid the echoing roar Of Aufidus, to Latium's lyre I sing with arts unknown before.

Though Homer fill the foremost throne, Yet grave Stesichorus still can please, And fierce Alcaeus holds his own, With Pindar and Simonides.

The songs of Teos are not mute, And Sappho's love is breathing still: She told her secret to the lute, And yet its chords with pa.s.sion thrill.

Not Sparta's queen alone was fired By broider'd robe and braided tress, And all the splendours that attired Her lover's guilty loveliness: Not only Teucer to the field His arrows brought, nor Ilion Beneath a single conqueror reel'd: Not Crete's majestic lord alone, Or Sthenelus, earn'd the Muses' crown: Not Hector first for child and wife, Or brave Deiphobus, laid down The burden of a manly life.

Before Atrides men were brave: But ah! oblivion, dark and long, Has lock'd them in a tearless grave, For lack of consecrating song.

'Twixt worth and baseness, lapp'd in death, What difference? YOU shall ne'er be dumb, While strains of mine have voice and breath: The dull neglect of days to come Those hard-won honours shall not blight: No, Lollius, no: a soul is yours, Clear-sighted, keen, alike upright When fortune smiles, and when she lowers: To greed and rapine still severe, Spurning the gain men find so sweet: A consul, not of one brief year, But oft as on the judgment-seat You bend the expedient to the right, Turn haughty eyes from bribes away, Or bear your banners through the fight, Scattering the foeman's firm array.

The lord of boundless revenues, Salute not him as happy: no, Call him the happy, who can use The bounty that the G.o.ds bestow, Can bear the load of poverty, And tremble not at death, but sin: No recreant he when called to die In cause of country or of kin.

XI.

EST MIHI NONUM.

Here is a cask of Alban, more Than nine years old: here grows Green parsley, Phyllis, and good store Of ivy too (Wreathed ivy suits your hair, you know) The plate shines bright: the altar, strewn With vervain, hungers for the flow Of lambkin's blood.

There's stir among the serving folk; They bustle, bustle, boy and girl; The flickering flames send up the smoke In many a curl.

But why, you ask, this special cheer?

We celebrate the feast of Ides, Which April's month, to Venus dear, In twain divides.

O, 'tis a day for reverence, E'en my own birthday scarce so dear, For my Maecenas counts from thence Each added year.

'Tis Telephus that you'd bewitch: But he is of a high degree; Bound to a lady fair and rich, He is not free.

O think of Phaethon half burn'd, And moderate your pa.s.sion's greed: Think how Bellerophon was spurn'd By his wing'd steed.

So learn to look for partners meet, Shun lofty things, nor raise your aims Above your fortune. Come then, sweet, My last of flames (For never shall another fair Enslave me), learn a tune, to sing With that dear voice: to music care Shall yield its sting.

XII.

JAM VERIS COMITES.

The gales of Thrace, that hush the unquiet sea, Spring's comrades, on the bellying canvas blow: Clogg'd earth and brawling streams alike are free From winter's weight of snow.

Wailing her Itys in that sad, sad strain, Builds the poor bird, reproach to after time Of Cecrops' house, for b.l.o.o.d.y vengeance ta'en On foul barbaric crime.

The keepers of fat lambkins chant their loves To silvan reeds, all in the gra.s.sy lea, And pleasure Him who tends the flocks and groves Of dark-leaved Arcady.

It is a thirsty season, Virgil mine: But would you taste the grape's Calenian juice, Client of n.o.ble youths, to earn your wine Some nard you must produce.

A tiny box of nard shall bring to light The cask that in Sulpician cellar lies: O, it can give new hopes, so fresh and bright, And gladden gloomy eyes.

You take the bait? then come without delay And bring your ware: be sure, 'tis not my plan To let you drain my liquor and not pay, As might some wealthy man.

Come, quit those covetous thoughts, those knitted brows, Think on the last black embers, while you may, And be for once unwise. When time allows, 'Tis sweet the fool to play.

XIII.

AUDIVERE, LYCE.

The G.o.ds have heard, the G.o.ds have heard my prayer; Yes, Lyce! you are growing old, and still You struggle to look fair; You drink, and dance, and trill Your songs to youthful Love, in accents weak With wine, and age, and pa.s.sion. Youthful Love!

He dwells in Chia's cheek, And hears her harp-strings move.

Rude boy, he flies like lightning o'er the heath Past wither'd trees like you; you're wrinkled now; The white has left your teeth And settled on your brow.

Your Coan silks, your jewels bright as stars, Ah no! they bring not back the days of old, In public calendars By flying Time enroll'd.

Where now that beauty? where those movements? where That colour? what of her, of her is left, Who, breathing Love's own air, Me of myself bereft, Who reign'd in Cinara's stead, a fair, fair face, Queen of sweet arts? but Fate to Cinara gave A life of little s.p.a.ce; And now she cheats the grave Of Lyce, spared to raven's length of days, That youth may see, with laughter and disgust, A fire-brand, once ablaze, Now smouldering in grey dust.

XIV.

QUAE CURA PATRUM.

What honours can a grateful Rome, A grateful senate, Caesar, give To make thy worth through days to come Emblazon'd on our records live, Mightiest of chieftains whomsoe'er The sun beholds from heaven on high?

They know thee now, thy strength in war, Those unsubdued Vindelici.

Thine was the sword that Drusus drew, When on the Breunian hordes he fell, And storm'd the fierce Genaunian crew E'en in their Alpine citadel, And paid them back their debt twice told; 'Twas then the elder Nero came To conflict, and in ruin roll'd Stout Raetian kernes of giant frame.

O, 'twas a gallant sight to see The shocks that beat upon the brave Who chose to perish and be free!

As south winds scourge the rebel wave When through rent clouds the Pleiads weep, So keen his force to smite, and smite The foe, or make his charger leap Through the red furnace of the fight.

Thus Daunia's ancient river fares, Proud Aufidus, with bull-like horn, When swoln with choler he prepares A deluge for the fields of corn.

So Claudius charged and overthrew The grim barbarian's mail-clad host, The foremost and the hindmost slew, And conquer'd all, and nothing lost.

The force, the forethought, were thine own, Thine own the G.o.ds. The selfsame day When, port and palace open thrown, Low at thy footstool Egypt lay, That selfsame day, three l.u.s.tres gone, Another victory to thine hand Was given; another field was won By grace of Caesar's high command.

Thee Spanish tribes, unused to yield, Mede, Indian, Scyth that knows no home, Acknowledge, sword at once and shield Of Italy and queenly Rome.

Ister to thee, and Tanais fleet, And Nile that will not tell his birth, To thee the monstrous seas that beat On Britain's coast, the end of earth, To thee the proud Iberians bow, And Gauls, that scorn from death to flee; The fierce Sygambrian bends his brow, And drops his arms to worship thee

XV.

PHOEBUS VOLENTEM.

Of battles fought I fain had told, And conquer'd towns, when Phoebus smote His harp-string: "Sooth, 'twere over-bold To tempt wide seas in that frail boat."