And this I drag along with much ado,
Who just now yeaning in the hazle shade,
Departing thence forsook her tender young,
The little hope of my decreasing fold,
On the cold bosom of a flinty stone.
Dire omens oft have all these ills foretold!
I should have seen, of reason not bereft,
Yon oak, which grew so fair, by lightening riven,
And the hoarse raven, croaking from the left,
Presage the vengeful storm of frowning heaven.
But, tell me, Tityrus, who is this God,
That on his favourite swain such gifts bestowed?
A fool I was to think the city Rome,
Whither we drive our tender herds from home,
Like Mantua; thus I might likewise dare
Bitches with whelps, and dams with kids compare;
As well the great to small a likeness own;
But regal Rome erects her lofty throne,
Above the cities, which around her shine,
As the tall cypress o'er the creeping vine.
What mighty cause could force you thus from home, And urge the fond desire of seeing Rome?
Freedom; whose ray at length disclosed its light,
age had blossomed all its white,
Upon my hoary chin it came at last,
After long years of slavery were passed,
love for Galatea ceased,
And beauteous Amaryllis warmed my breast;
For while in Galatea's love enchained,
Nor freedom's hope, nor rural cares remained;
Though frequent victims thinned my rising fold,
And many a cheese for the ingrate city sold,
Yet still for her I spent whate'er I earned,
And still with empty purse I home returned.
Why Amaryllis to the gods complained,
And why the trees their ripened loads sustained,
I cease to wonder; Tityrus, for thee
Her vows were made, and fruitage bent each tree;
The groves, the fountains wish for your return,
And 'twas for this the pine's tall branches mourn.
What could I do? Love still inflamed my heart, Nor suffered me from slavery to depart.
Return I could not, for a gracious ear
The auspicious gods there granted to my prayer;
There first I saw the youth, whose altars burn,
With grateful incense at each month's return;
'Twas there he kindly gave my steers again
To own the yoke, my herds to graze the plain.
O, happy sire, for you your fields remain,
For you, shall plenty smile along your plain;
Although the marshy bulrush overspread,
And flinty rocks clothe o'er the neighbouring mead;
Yet shall no dire contagion waste your flock,
Nor noxious food the pregnant kine provoke.
Fortunate man! what pleasures on you wait;
Here, where the well known river winds its flood,
Where sacred groves embower a cool retreat,
Where gales, to fan you, breathe from every
From yonder hedge, which guards the neighbouring ground,
Where Hyplean bees the willow grove surround,
Still shall their murmurs slumbering, as they creep,
O'er the closed eyelids spread the balm of sleep;
While from yon craggy rock the pruner's song,
Your slumbers shall with pleasing dreams prolong;
Nor shall the dove forget her cooing note,
And from the elm the turtle's musick float.
Sooner the stag the earth for air shall change,
The fish on shore retreating ocean cast;
Along the Tygris' banks the German range,
The exiled Parthian of the Arar taste,
Than from my grateful breast his angel face,
E'en hoary Time be able to erase.
But, we in exile from our native lands,
Shall seek retreat in Africk's parching sands;
To swift Oasis or to Scythia haste,
Or from the world to Britain's cloistered waste,
And must we thus our hapless fate deplore,
And ne'er our eyes review our native shore;
Or shall some future year restore my throne,
The lowly cot, those meadows once my own?
And shall the impious soldier seize my field?
For the barbarian shall the harvest yield
Its annual products? Ah! what horrid wars,
And scenes of misery spring from civil jars ?
For whom have I beneath the sultry sun
Thus tilled my ground? the labour's all that's mine.
Go, Melibæus, haste, your pear-trees prune,
In beauteous order plant the tender vine;
Go, my once happy, now deserted flock,
No more beneath the verdant grot I lay,
Nor view you grazing on the craggy rock,
No more upon my rural pipe I'll play ;
No more shall you upon the hillock's top,
The flowery shrub or bitter osier crop.
With me at least to night lay by your care, We can for you a bed of leaves prepare; With ripened apples, which the fields afford, Chestnuts and milk we'll store the frugal board. Now the blue vapours o'er the hills arise, And smokes from village chimneys paint the skies. Now setting Phoebus meets his western bed,
And from the hills the lengthening shadows spread.
OF THE TENTH ODE, SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.
IF o'er life's sea your bark you'd safely guide,
Trust not the surges of its stormy tide;
And while you dread the tempest's horrid roar,
Avoid those shoals, which threaten from the shore.
The happy few, who choose the golden mean,
Free from the tattered garb, the cell obscene,
From all the world's gay pageantry aloof,
Spurn the rich trappings of the envied roof.
The stately ship, which cuts the glassy wave,
Is oftener tossed than skiffs, when tempests rave:
The tower, whose lofty brow sustains the sky,
With greater ruin tumbles from on high:
The lightning's bolt, with forky vengeance red,
Vents its first fury on the mountain's head.
The mind, where Wisdom deigns her genial light,
Led by the star of Hope in adverse night,
Fortune's gay sunshine never can elate-
Dauntless, prepared to meet the frowns of Fate.
"Tis Jove who bids the dashing tempest swell, And the bright sun the stormy clouds dispel.
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