What form of Death could him affright, And stole from Heaven the seeds of fire: In swarms th' offending wretch surround, Plung'd through the lake, and snatch'd the prey. THE NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. BEHOLD Oppress the labouring woods below : Let him alone, with what he made, And then the calm returns, and all is peace. 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 streams require, [raging fire. And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the Thou, what befits the new lord mayor, And what the city factions dare, And what the Gallic arms will do, And what the quiver-bearing foe, Art anxiously inquisitive to know : But God has, wisely, hid from human sight The dark decrees of future fate, And sown their seeds in depth of night; He laughs at all the giddy turns of state; In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And, running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek Within some little winding creek: And see the storm ashore. THE SECOND EPODE OF HORACE. How happy in his low degree, When mortals search too soon, and fear too late. How rich in humble poverty, is he, Enjoy the present smiling hour, The tide of business, like the running stream, And always in extreme. Now with a noiseless gentle course And bears down all before it with impetuous force; honours mourn. Fortune, that, with malicious joy, Does man her slave oppress, Proud of her office to destroy, I can enjoy her while she's kind; But when she dances in the wind, And shakes the wings and will not stay, [sign'd: Who leads a quiet country life; Their small paternal field of corn. Nor drums disturb his morning sleep, And court, and state, he wisely shuns, But either to the clasping vine Does the supporting poplar wed, Or with his pruning-hook disjoin Unbearing branches from their head, And grafts more happy in their stead. Or, climbing to a hilly steep, He views his herds in vales afar, Or mead for cooling drink prepares, Or in the now-declining year, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear, When bounteous autumn rears his head, 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; The stream that o'er the pebbles flies And seeks the tusky boar to rear, With twinkling glasses, to betray The larks that in the meshes light, Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind destroys, 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, Sun-burnt and swarthy though she be, Will fire for winter-nights provide, And without noise will oversee And then produce her dairy store, And unbought dainties of the poor; Not ovsters of the Lucrine lake My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake, And hither waft the costly dish. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird, Which Phasis or Ionia yields, More pleasing morsels would afford Than the fat olives of my fields; Than shards or mallows for the pot, To the just guardian of my ground. The jolly shepherd smiles to see That sit around his cheerful hearth, With wholesome food and country mirth. This Morecraft said within himself, Resolv'd to leave the wicked town: He call'd his money in; But the prevailing love of pelf, Soon split him on the former shelf, He put it out again. |