Thick laurel boughs the sun will shroud;

Not such the ancient rule;

Not thus had Romulus allowed,
Nor rough old Cato's school.

Then each man's private means were small,

The public wealth was great;

And no one built, to shade his hall,

Large porticoes of state.

Laws bade men roof their own abodes

With humble turf alone

;

But towers and temples of the gods
They raised of polished stone.

XVI.

THE FOLLY OF AMBITION.

For ease the sailor prays when caught
On the wide sea by stormy blast,
While skies with gloomy clouds are fraught
And stars their light uncertain cast.

For ease the quivered Parthians sigh,
And Thracian raging fierce in war ;
For ease which never gold can buy,
Nor gems nor any purple store.

For ah! nor wealth nor consul's power
Can troubles of the mind abate;
And all the cares which every hour

Fly round the mansions of the great.

O! well for him who on his board

Keeps humble dishes clean and bright; No fears, no sordid lust to hoard,

Shall ever scare his slumbers light.

Since life is short why aim so high?

Why seek to change our own countree For lands 'neath foreign suns that lie? What exile from himself can flee?

Corroding Care climbs up the bark,
And rides behind the charging knight;
Swifter than stags she seeks her mark,
Or Eurus putting clouds to flight.

He who is blest to-day will hate
To plague himself about tomorrow,

He'll scorn the bitterness of fate,

For nought is wholly free from sorrow.

Death swift Achilles could not flee;
A long old age Tithonus knew ;
And time may haply give to me

The blessings it withholds from you.

A hundred flocks around you stray,
A hundred beeves of Sicily,

Champing the bit your coursers neigh,

You're clothed with Afric's purple dye.

To me a small and humble farm

The Fates unfailing have allowed; To know the Grecian Muse's charm,

And scorn the malice of the crowd.

XVII.

TO MECENAS IN ILL-HEALTH.

Why wilt thou thus my torturer be?
It cannot please the gods nor me,

That thou, my pride and stay,
Thou who my early genius nurst,
My other self, should'st be the first
For Fate to snatch away.

If death's untimely stroke deprive
Me of thy love, can I survive
When half my life is gone?

The day that mourns Mæcenas' end,
Shall also see expire his friend ;
He cannot live alone.

No idle oath is this I've sworn,
But wheresoever thou art borne,
I too will follow thither.

I too will go where thou dost lead,
And thus the last sad path we'll tread
As comrades still together.

No dire Chimæra's fiery breath,
Nor Gyas, should he rise from death

With all his hundred hands,

Shall ever separate us twain ;

So mighty Justice doth ordain,

And such are Fate's commands.

Whether 'twas Libra watched my birth,

Or Scorpion, foe to sons of earth,

A dreaded sign to brave,

Or Capricornus, hung on high,

With baleful light adorned the sky,
Lord of the western wave;

Whatever planet then did shine,
It must have been akin to thine,

So like has been our state;

The care of Jove, one awful hour,
Snatched thee from impious Saturn's power,
And stayed the stroke of fate;

What time, relieved from anxious fear

For thy dear life, the theatre

All crowded hailed thy name ;

Whilst on my head a falling tree
Had quickly made an end of me,
But to my rescue came

Faunus, the god whose watchful eye
Protects the friends of Mercury;
So let us keep the day;

Whilst thou wilt dedicate a shrine,
And offer costly gifts, 'tis mine
A humble lamb to slay.

XVIII.

THE USELESSNESS OF WEALTH.

No ivory glitters in my home,

No ceiling's gilded dome;

No curious beams, no shafts I own,

Hewn from far Afric's stone.

I seek no lawless gain, and ne'er
Claimed as the rich man's heir.

No favours from fair dames I win,
For me they never spin.

But still I prove in friendship true,
And have some genius too.

The wealthy court me, tho' I'm poor;
I pray for nothing more.

No lands demand I of the great,

Pleased with my small estate.

Day speeds on day-the last new moon
Will wane and perish soon.

You, when you ought to make your will,
Bargain with sculptors still.

Heedless of death you build away,
And haste to extend your sway

O'er seas that break on Baiæ's strand,
Not rich enough on land.

E'en through your neighbours' fields you rove,

And boundaries fixed remove.

Over your clients' pales you leap,

Tempted by avarice deep;

They're driven from their mean abodes,

They and their household gods,

Husband and wife, and children too,

A squalid sight to view.