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What form of Death could him affright,
Secure those golden early joys, Who unconcerned, with stedfast sight,
That youth unsour'd with sorroty bears, Could view the surges mounting steep,
Ere withering Time the taste destroys, And monsters rolling in the deep!
With sickness and unwieldly years. Could through the ranks of ruin go,
For active sports, for pleasing rest, With storins above, and rocks below!
This is the time to be possest;
The best is but in season best.
Th’appointed hour of promis'd bliss,
* The pleasing whisper in the dark, Th' eternal fences over-leap,
The half unwilling willing kiss, And pass at will the boundless deep.
The laugh that guides thee to the mark, No toil, no bardship, can restrain
When the kind nymph would coyness feign, Ambitious man inurd to pain;
And hides but to be found again; The more confin'd, the more he tries,
These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain.
THE TWENTY-NINTH ODE
Paraphras'd in Pindaric verse, and inscribed to Comes ap to shorten half our date.
the Right Hon. Laurence earl of Rochester.
Descended of an ancient line,
Make haste to meet the generous wine,
Whose piercing is for thee delay'd; We reach at Jove's imperial crown,
The rosy wreath is ready made; And pull th’ unwilling thunder down.
And artful hands prepare
[hair. The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume' thy
OF THE THIRD BOOK OP
THE NINTH ODE
When the wine sparkles from afar,
And the well-natur'd friend cries, “Come away!” Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care :
No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.
OF THE FIRST BOOK OF
Behold yon mountain's hoary height
Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter's weight
Oppress the labouring woods below: And streams, with icy fetters bound, Benumb'd and crampt to solid ground. With well-heap'd logs dissolve the cold,
And feed the genial hearth with fires;
And sprightly wit and love inspires:
Leave for a while thy costly country seat;
And, to be great indeed, forget
Make haste and come :
Thy turret that surveys, from high,
And all the busy pageantry
sures of the poor.
Let him alone, with what he made,
To toss and turn the world below;
The winds by his commission blow;
Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich, to try
A savory dish, a homely treat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Syrian star,
Barks from afar,
The shepherd drives his fainting flock .[us fry.
To-morrow and her works defy,
Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by,
To put them out of Fortune's power : Nor love, nor love's delights disdain; Whate'er thou gett'st to-day, is gain.
Those very shades and streams new shades and In my small pinnace I can sail,
Contemning all the blustering roar;
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within some little winding creek :
And see the storm ashore.
THE SECOND EPODE
How happy in his low degree,
Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of strife,
And from the griping scrivener free!
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own
Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets summon him to war,
Nor drums disturb his morning sleep,
Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
And court, and state, he wisely shuns,
Nor, brib'd with hopes, nor dard with awe,
To servile salutations runs;
Does the supporting poplar wed,
Unbearing branches from their head,
And grafts more bappy in their stead,
Or, climbing to a hilly steep,
He views his herds in vales afar,
Or sheers his overbürthen'd sheep,
Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.
Or in the now-declining year, Not Heaven itself upon the past has power ; When bounteous autumn rears his head, But what has been, has been, and I have had my He joys to pull the ripen'd pear, hour.
And clustering grapes with purple spread.
The fairest of his fruit he serves,
Priapus, thy rewards:
Sylvanus too his part deserves,
Whose care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,
Or on the matted grass, he lies;
No god of sleep he need invoke ;
The stream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle slumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays But when she dances in the wind,
Maintains the concert of the song ;
The golden sleep prolong.
But, when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary frost inverts the year,
And seeks the tusky boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear!
Or spreads his subtle nets from sight
If the mast split, and threaten wreck? The larks that in the meshes light,
Or makes the fearful bare his prey.
Amidst his harmless easy joys
No anxious care invades his health,
Nor wicked avarice of wealth.
But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To ease the business of his life,
Divides with him his household care,
Than shards or mallows for the pot, Such as the Sabine matrons were,
That keep the loosen'd body sound, Such as the swift Apulian's bride,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot Sun-burnt and swarthy though she be,
To the just guardian of my ground. Will fire for winter-nights provide,
Amidst these feasts of happy swains, And without noise will oversee
The jolly shepherd smiles to see His children and his family ;
His flock returning from the plains; And order all things till he come,
The farmer is as pleas'd as he Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
To view his oxen sweating smoke, If she in pens his flocks will fold,
Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke: And then produce her dairy store,
To look upon bis menial crew, With wine to drive away the cold,
That sit around his cheerful hearth, And unbought dainties of the poor ;
And bodies spent in toil renew Not oysters of the Lucrine lake
With wholesome food and country mirth. My sober appetite would wish,
This Morecraft said within himself, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish
Resolv'd to leave the wicked town: That rolling tempests overtake,
And live retir'd upon his own, And hither waft the costly dish.
He call'd his money in; Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,
But the prevailing love of pelf, Which Phasis or lonia yields,
Soon split him on the former shelf, More pleasing morsels would afford
He put it out again. Than the fat olives of my fields;