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THE

THIRD ODE of the FIRST BOOK

OF

HOR A CE.

Infcribed to the Earl of RosCOMMON, on his intended Voyage to Ireland.

So may th' aufpicious queen of love,

And the twin ftars the feed of Jove,

And he who rules the raging wind,
To thee, O facred ship, be kind;
And gentle breezes fill thy fails,
Supplying foft Etefian gales:

As thou, to whom the Mufe commends
The best of poets and of friends,
Doft thy committed pledge restore,
And land him fafely on the fhore;
And fave the better part of me,
From perishing with him at sea,
Sure he, who firft the paffage try'd,
In harden'd oak his heart did hide,
And ribs of iron arm'd his fide;
Or his at least, in hollow wood
Who tempted firft the briny flood:

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Nor

Nor fear'd the winds contending roar,

Nor billows beating on the fhore;
Nor Hyades portending rain;
Nor all the tyrants of the main.
What form of death could him affright,
Who unconcern'd, with stedfast fight,
Could view the furges mounting steep,
And monsters rolling in the deep!
Could through the ranks of ruin go,
With ftorms above, and rocks below!
In vain did Nature's wife command
Divide the waters from the land,
If daring fhips and men prophane
Invade th' inviolable main;
Th' eternal fences over-leap,
And pafs at will the boundless deep.
No toil, no hardship, can refrain
Ambitious man inur'd to pain;

The more confin'd, the more he tries,
And at forbidden quarry flies.

Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,

And ftole from Heaven the feeds of fire:
A train of ills, a ghastly crew,

The robber's blazing track pursue:
Fierce famine with her meagre face,
And fevers of the fiery race,

In fwarms th' offending wretch surround,
All brooding on the blasted ground:
And limping death, lafh'd on by fate,
Comes up to fhorten half our date.

This made not Dædalus beware,

With borrow'd wings to fail in air :

To hell Alcides forc'd his way,

Plung'd through the lake, and snatch'd the prey.

Nay fcarce the Gods, or heavenly climes,

Are fafe from our audacious crimes;

We reach at Jove's imperial crown,

And pull th' unwilling thunder down.

The NINTH ODE of the FIRST BOOK

of HORACE.

I.

BEHOLD yon mountain's hoary height

Made higher with new mounts` of fnow; Again behold the winter's weight

Oppress the labouring woods below: And ftreams, with icy fetters bound, Benumb'd and crampt to folid ground.

II.

With well-heap'd logs diffolve the cold,
And feed the genial hearth with fires
Produce the wine, that makes us bold,

And fprightly wit and love inspires :
For what hereafter fhall betide,
God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.

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III.

Let him alone, with what he made,
To tofs and turn the world below;
At his command the ftorms invade;

The winds by his commiffion blow;]
Till with a nod he bids them cease,
And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

IV.

To-morrow and her works defy,

Lay hold upon the present hour, And fnatch the pleafures paffing by,

To put them out of fortune's power: Nor love, nor love's delights difdain; Whate'er thou gett'st to-day, is gain.

V.

Secure thofe golden early joys,

That youth unfour'd with forrow bears,
Ere withering time the tafte deftroys,
With fickness and unweildy years.
For active sports, for pleafing reft,
This is the time to be poffeft;

The best is but in feafon beft.

VI.

Th' appointed hour of promis'd blifs,
The pleafing whisper in the dark,
The half unwilling willing kiss,

The laugh that guides thee to the mark,
When the kind nymph would coyness feign,
And hides but to be found again;

Thefe, these are joys the Gods for youth ordain.

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The

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