Ode VI. Book II. Imitated,
EVIL, that with your friend would roam,
BEVIL, that with
Far from your England's happier home,
Should e'er the Fates that friend detain
In gayer France, or graver Spain;
Know, all my wish is to retreat,
When age fhall quench my youthful heat,
In Kentish fhades fweet peace to find,
And leave the fons of care behind.
But fhould this pleafing hope be vain,
May I fair Windfor's feat attain,
Where Leddon's gentle waters glide,
And flocks adorn its flowery fide.
Sweet groves, I love your filent fhades ;
Your ruffet lawns, and op'ning glades,
With fam'd Italia's plains may vie
Your fertile fields, and healthful sky.
Here, let our eve of life be fpent';
Here, friend fhall live with friend content:
Here, in cold earth my limbs be laid;
And here, thy generous tear be paid.
Book II. Ode XII, Tranflated.
HE wars of Numantia and Hannibal dire,
On land, or on ocean the fighting,
Mæcenas, ne'er fuited my peaceable lyre,
In fubjects much fofter delighting.
You love not of centaurs embattled to hear,
Nor of giants, a tale of such wonder,
Who shook all the fkies, made Jupiter fear,
"Till drove by Alcides and thunder.
In profe, my good patron, more nobly you write,
As your topic than thefe is much better,
How Cæfar with glory can govern and fight,
And lead haughty kings in his fetter..
Alone my gay Mufe of Licinnia would fing,
The conftant, good-natur'd, and pretty,
So graceful to dance with the maids in a ring,
So fparkling, fo merry, and witty.
While you play with her hair, that is carelessly curl'd,
While this way, now that way she twitches,
Of your teazing fo kindly complaining, no world
Could bribe for one lock with its riches.
Thus bleft with the nymph, how transporting the joy!
Who whimsical, wanton, amufes ;
Who pleasingly forward, or prettily coy,
Oft fnatches the kifs fhe refufes.
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To a LADY making a Pin-Basket,
By the Same,
WHILE objects of a parent's care,
With joy your fond attention share,
Madam, accept th' aufpicious ftrain;
Nor rife your beauteous work in vain,
Oft be your fecond race furvey'd,
And oft a new pin-basket made.
When marriage was in all its glory,
So poets, madam, tell the ftory,
Ere Plutus damp'd love's purer flame,
Or Smithfield bargains had a name,
In heav'n a blooming youth and bride
At Hymen's altars were ally'd ;
When Cupid had his Pfyché won,
And, all her deftin'd labours done,
The cruel Fates their rage relented,
And mamma Venus had confented.
At Jove's command, and Hermes' call,
The train appear'd to fill the hall,
And gods, and goddeffes were dreft,
To do them honour, in their best.
The little rogues now pass'd the row,
And look'd, and mov'd I don't know how,
And, ambling hand in hand, appear
Before the mighty thunderer.
Low at his throne they bent the knee
He fmil'd the blushing pair to fee,
Lay'd his tremendous bolt afide,
And strok'd their cheeks, and kiss'd the bride.
Says Juno, fince our Jove's fo kind,
My dears, fome present I must find,
In greatest pleasures, greatest dangers,
We and the fex were never ftrangers
With bounteous hand my gifts I fpread
Prefiding o'er the marriage-bed.
Soon, for the months are on the wing,
To you a daughter fair I bring,
And know, from this your nuptial morn
Shall Pleasure, smiling babe, be born.
But for the babe we must prepare ;
That too shall be your Juno's care.
Apollo, from his golden lyre,
Shall firft affift us with the wire ;
Vulcan shall make the filver pin.
The basket thus we fhall begin,
Where we may put the child's array,
And get it ready by the day.
The nymphs themselves with flowers fhall dress it,
Pallas fhall weave, and I will blefs it.
RST, in Cythera's facred fhade,
When
When Venus clafp'd the god of war,
The laughing loves around them play'd,
One bore the shield, and one the spear.
The little warriors Cupid led,
The fhining baldric grac'd his breast,
The mighty helmet o'er his head
Nodded its formidable creft.
Hence oft', to win fome ftubborn maid,
Still does the wanton God affume
The martial air, the gay cockade,
The (word, the fhoulder-knot and plume,
Phyllis had long his power defy'd,
Refolv'd her conquefts to maintain;
His fruitless art each poet try'd :
Each fhepherd tun'd his pipe in vain.
'Till Cupid came, a captain bold :
Of trenches and of palifadoes
He talk'd; and many a tale he told
Of battles, and of ambuscadoes.
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