IMITATION

OF

FOURTEENTH ODE OF SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

BEHOLD Posthumus! early friend,

How swift our moments fly;

Moments appearing-but to end,

Or glitt'ring-but to die.

Not all that Virtue ever gave,

Their progress can delay;

Can save us from the mournful grave,

Or add a fleeting day;

Yon princely mansion you must leave,
With all that gives delight;

Your lovely bride (forbear to grieve,)
Must vanish from your sight.

The old Falernian, stored with care,
To please each pamper'd guest,

Will only serve your sprightly heir,

To squander in a jest.

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IMITATION, ETC.

He happiest lives, remote from care,

In his paternal dome;

No guilty pangs the bosom tear,

No av'rice tempts to roam.

In vain the restless Exile roves,

To soothe his anxious mind;

In vain he flies thro' tropic groves,

To leave himself behind.

For Care ascends the gilded bark,
Before the Warrior flies;

Swift as a comet in the dark,

When lightnings rend the skies.

A cheerful frame, serene and gay,

That checks each low desire;

A temper open as the day,

What more can Man require?

With golden ore, perchance you shine,

From India's sultry sky;

With diamonds sparkling from her mine,

And robes of Tyrian dye.

IMITATION, ETC.

The Fates bestow'd my Sabine farm,

(Derided by the proud ;)

My Muse of ev'ry woe the balm,

That scorns the vulgar crowd.

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