Odes of Horace - Ode 1.1. To Maecenas

Maecenas, of a race renown'd,
Whose royal ancestors were crown'd;
O patron of my wealth and praise,
And pride and pleasure of my days!
Some of a vent'rous cast there are,
That glory in th'Olympic car,
Whose glowing wheels in dust they roll,
Driv'n to an inch upon the goal,
And rise from mortal to divine,
Ennobled by the wreath they twine.
One, if the giddy mob proclaim,
And vying lift to threefold fame;
One, if within his barn he stores
The wealth of Lybian threshing floors,
Will never from his course be press'd,
For all that Attalus possess'd,
To plow, with sailor's anxious pain,
In Cyprian sloop th'Egean main.
The merchant, dreading the south-west,
Whose blasts th'Icarian wave molest,
Praises his villa's rural ease,
Built amongst bowling-greens and trees;
But soon the thoughts of growing poor
Make him his shatter'd barks insure.
There's now and then a social soul
That will not scorn the Massic bowl,
Nor shuns to break in a degree
On the grave day's solidity;
Now underneath the shrubby shade,
Now by the sacred fountain laid.
Many are for the martial strife,
And love the trumpet and the fife,
That mingle in the din of war,
Which all the pious dames abhor:
The sportsman, heedless of his fair,
With patience braves the wintry air,
Whether his blood-hounds, staunch and keen,
The hind have in the covert seen,
Or wild boar of the Marsian breed,
From the round-twisted cords is freed.
But as for Horace, I espouse
The glory of the scholar's brows,
The wreath of festive ivy wove,
Which makes one company for Jove.
Me the cool groves by zephyrs fann'd,
Where nymphs and satyrs, hand in hand,
Dance nimbly to the rural song,
Distinguish from the vulgar throng.
If nor Euterpe, heavenly gay,
Forbid her pleasant pipes to play,
Nor Polyhymnia disdain
A lesson in the Lesbian strain,
That, thro' Maecenas, I may pass
'Mongst writers of the Lyric class,
My muse her laurell'd head shall rear,
And top the zenith of her sphere.

Surely at length it may suffice,
These frequent storms of snow and hail,
Which Jove commission'd from the skies,
So dreadful to prevail!
And hurling from his flaming arm
His vengeful bolts, 'midst thunder-show'rs
Has o'er the city spread th'alarm,
And smote the sacred tow'rs.
Thro' all the world th'alarm is spread,
For fear of those portentous days,
When Proteus on the mountain's head
Made his sea-monsters graze.
On topmost elms the scaly race
Stuck where the ring-doves us'd to be,
And tim'rous deer, expell'd their place,
Swam in the whelming sea.
We saw the sandy Tiber drive
Huge billows from th'Etrurian strand,
And e'en at Vesta's fane arrive
To mar, what Numa plann'd.
Whilst vengeful 'gainst the will supreme
He fondling hears his wife complain,
And flooding to the left his stream,
He glories in our bane.
Thinn'd by our crimes our sons shall tell,
How Romans whet the sword and spear,
(Against the Persians had been well)
And all our broils shall hear.
What pow'r to save her sinking name
Shall Rome invoke, what urgent suit
Shall Vesta's holy virgins frame
In hymns that bear no fruit?
What worthy, for the nation's aid,
Our crimes t'atone shall Jove assign,
Come white-rob'd Phoebus, as we've pray'd,
Do thou thyself divine.
Or if thou rather wouldst befriend,
Glad queen of Eryce's perfumes,
Whom love and pleasantry attend
With their ambrosial plumes —
Or, Mars, if thou at length wouldst speed,
O founder of the Roman race,
To visit thy neglected seed,
Now sunk into disgrace:
Too long indulg'd thy cruel sport,
Whom noise, and polish'd helms delight,
And the fierce Moor's determin'd port,
And aspect in the fight.
Or if the part you can sustain,
By thee the righteous deed be done,
You, which yourself a mortal feign,
O gentle Maia's son:
Late may'st thou be again receiv'd,
And long in gladness rule our state,
Nor thee at all our vices griev'd,
Th'unwelcome gale translate!
Here rather be the triumph priz'd,
And, father, emp'ror dear to Rome,
Delight thine ear — nor unchastis'd,
Let scamp'ring Medes presume!
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