Yet oft he chases every showery cloud, And thou, MUNATIUS, whether fate ordain Umbrageous Tivoli, thy steps invite ; If trumpets sound the clang that warriors love, The walls of Salamis when TEUCER fled, "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 The yellow Tyber's angry tide, When the tempestuous showers its rage alarm? Why hates he, as the viper's gore, '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; And Death with Glory meet him at her gate. TO THALIARCHUS. BOOK THE FIRST, ODE THE NINTH. IN dazzling whiteness, lo! Soracte towers, Let plenteous billets, on the glowing hearth, High Heaven, resistless in his varied sway, * This Ode was probably written at the country seat of that nobleman, near the mountain Soracte, in Tuscany, twenty-six miles from Rome. |