Classic Poem

BOOK II. ODE XVI .

TO THE EARL OF M — — — T

Ease from the gods the sailor prays,
O'ertaken in the' Ægean seas,
When storms begin to roar;
When clouds wrap up the moon from sight,
Nor shine the stars with certain light,
To guide him safe to shore.

Ease, fierce the Russian in war's trade:
Ease, graceful in his Tartan Plaid,
The Highlander demands,
M — — — t, not to be bought or sold,
For purple, precious gems, or gold,
Or wide and large command.

For nor can wealth, nor golden mace,
Borne high before the great in place,
Make cares stand out o'the way;
The anxious tumults of the mind,
That round the palace unconfin'd
Still roam by night and day.

Rich he lives on small, whose board
Shines with frugal affluence stor'd,
The wealth his sire possest;
Nor fear to lose, creates him pain;
Nor sordid love of greater gain,
Can break his easy rest.

Why do we draw too strong the bow,
Beyond our end our hopes to throw,
For warm with other suns
Why change our clime? to ease his toil,
What exile from his native soil
From self an exile runs?

For vicious care the ship ascends,
On the way-faring troop attends
First of the company:
Swifter than harts that seek the floods,
Swifter than roll wind-driven clouds,
Along the middle sky.

Glad in the present hour, a mind
Disdains the care beyond, assign'd
To all content at heart;
Tempers of life the bitter cup,
With sweetning mirth, and drinks it up,
None blest in every part.

Dwindled thy sire in slow old age,
Young K — — — m from off this stage
Was ravish'd in his prime:
The hour perhaps, benign to me,
Will grant what it denies to thee,
And lengthen out my time.

A numerous herd thy vallies fills,
The cattle on a thousand hills
That low around, are thine:
The well-pair'd mares thy gilded car
Draw through the streets, thyself from far,
In richest silks to shine,

Conspicuous seen. To me my fate,
Not much to blame, a small estate,
Of rural acres few:
A slender portion of the Muse
Bounteous besides, the Grace allows,
To scorn the' ill-thinking crew.