Classic Poem

BOOK III

ODE 1

I SCORN and shun the rabble's norse.
Abstain from idle talk. A thing
That ear hath not yet heard, I sing,
The Muses' priest, to maids and boys.

To Jove the flocks which great kings sway,
To Jove great kings allegiance owe.
Praise him: he laid the giants low:
All things that are, his nod obey.

This man may plant in broader lines
His fruit-trees: that, the pride of race
Enlists a candidate for place:
In worth, in fame, a third outshines.

His mates; or, thronged with clients, claims
Precedence. Even-handed Fate
Hath but one law for small and great:
That ample urn holds all men's names.

He o'er whose doomed neck hangs the sword
Unsheathed, the dainties of the South
Shall lack their sweetness in his mouth:
No note of bird or harpsichord.

Shall bring him Sleep. Yet Sleep is kind,
Nor scorns the huts of labouring men;
The bank where shadows play, the glen
Of Tempe dancing in the wind.

He, who but asks " Enough," defies
Wild waves to rob him of his ease;
He fears no rude shocks, when he sees
Arcturus set or Haedus rise:

When hailstones lash his vines, or fails
His farm its promise, now of rains
And now of stars that parch the plains
Complaining, or unkindly gales.

— In straitened seas the fish are pent;
For dams' are sunk into the deep:
Pile upon pile the builders heap,
And he, whom earth could not content,

The Master. Yet shall Fear and Hate
Climb where the Master climbs: nor e'er
From the armed trireme parts black Care;
He sits behind, the horseman's mate.

And if red marble shall not ease
The heartache; nor the shell that shines
Star-bright; nor all Falernum's vines,
All scents that charmed Achaemenes:

Why should I rear me halls of rare
Design, on proud shafts mounting high?
Why bid my Sabine vale good-bye
For doubled wealth and doubled care?