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Yet oft he chases every showery cloud,
Winnowing, with pinion light, th' aerial plains;
Ah! thus from thee let each dark vapour roll,
That rash Ambition gathers on the soul;
The jocund pleasures in her absence rise,
Glow in the breast, and sparkle in the eyes.

And thou, MUNATIUS, whether fate ordain
The camp thy home, with glancing javelins bright;
Or if the graces of that fair domain,

Umbrageous Tivoli, thy steps invite ;

If trumpets sound the clang that warriors love,
Or round thee trill the choirings of the grove,
In flowing bowls drown every vain regret,
Enjoy the Present, and the Past forget!

The walls of Salamis when TEUCER fled,
Driven by a parent's unrelenting frown,
Hope from his spirit chased each anxious dread,
While on his brow he bound the poplar crown;
In rich libation pour'd the generous wine,
Then bath'd his temples in the juice divine;
And thus, with gladden'd eye, and air sedate,
Address'd the drooping followers of his fate.

"Wherever Destiny, a kinder friend

"Than he who gave me birth, may point the way.

"Thither resolv'd our duteous steps shall bend, "Nor know presaging fear, nor weak delay. "Doubt flies when TEUCER leads, and cold despair, "In TEUCER'S auspices, shall melt to air; "Phœbus ordains that, in more favouring skies, "Another prosp'rous Salamis shall rise.

"So much alike her fountains, fanes, and bowers, "That e'en her name shall dubious meaning bear ;"Then, my lov'd friends, who oft, in darker hours, "Have shar'd with me a conflict more severe, "O! let us lose in wine our sorrow's weight, "And rise the masters of our future fate! "This night we revel in convivial ease,

"To-morrow seek again the vast and pathless seas."

TO

LYDIA.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE EIGHTH.

O, LYDIA! I conjure thee tell Why, with persisting zeal, thou dost employ The strongest power of amorous spell On Sybaris, belov❜d too well,

Wounding his fame amid voluptuous joy?

Why shuns he now the noon-tide glare, Inur'd to whirling dust, and scorching heat? Ceases the warrior-vest to wear

In which he us❜d, with graceful air, Aspiring youths, all emulous, to meet?

Why is it now no more his pride
To rein the ardent horse with agile arm?
With new-strung sinews to divide

The yellow Tyber's angry tide,

When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm?

Why hates he, as the viper's gore,
The wrestler's oil, that supples every vein?
Why do we see his arms no more
With livid bruises spotted o'er,
Of manly sports the honourable stain?

'Twas his to whirl, with matchless skill, The glancing quoit, the certain javelin throw, While crowds, with acclamations shrill, The lofty circus joy'd to fill,

And all the honours of the day bestow.

Such fond seclusion why desire?— Thus Thetis' care her blooming son conceal'd, Ere yet commenc'd that contest dire, When mournful gleam'd the funeral pyre, Thro' ten long years, on Ilium's purpled field.

In vain the female vest he wore,

That Love maternal might avert his fate;
Lest his spear drink the Lycian gore,
Lest sinking Troy his force deplore,

And Death with Glory meet him at her gate.

TO

THALIARCHUS.

BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH.

IN dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers,
As all the mountain were one heap of snow!
Rush from the loaded woods the glittering showers;
The frost-bound waters can no longer flow.

Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth,
Dissolve the ice-dart ere it reach thy veins;
Bring mellow wines to prompt convivial mirth,
Nor heed th' arrested streams, or slippery plains.

High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway,
Speaks! The wild elements contend no more;
Nor then, from raging seas, the foamy spray
Climbs the dark rocks, or curls upon the shore.

* This Ode was probably written at the country seat of that nobleman, near the mountain Soracte, in Tuscany, twenty-six miles from Rome.

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