THE

TWENTY-SECOND ODE

O F THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

VIRTUE, dear friend, needs no defence,,

The fureft guard is innocence :

None knew, till guilt created fear,
What darts or poifon'd arrows were..
Integrity undaunted goes

Through Libyan fands and Scythian snows,
Or where Hydafpes' wealthy fide

Pays tribute to the Persian pride.

For as (by amorous thoughts betray'd)
Careless in Sabine woods I ftray'd,
A grifly foaming wolf unfed,
Met me unarm'd, yet trembling fled.
No beast of more portentous fize

In the Hercinian forest lies;
None fiercer, in Numidia bred,
With Carthage were in triumph led..
Set me in the remotest place,
That Neptune's frozen arms embrace;
Where angry Jove did never spare
One breath of kind and temperate air.
Set me where on some pathless plain

The fwarthy Africans complain,

To

To fee the chariot of the Sun

So near their fcorching country run.
The burning zone, the frozen ifles,
Shall hear me fing of Cælia's smiles :
All cold but in her breast I will defpife,
And dare all heat but that in Cælia's eyes.

THE SAME IMITATED.

VIR

I.

IRTUE (dear friend) needs no defence,
No arms, but its own innocence :
Quivers and bows, and poifon'd darts,
Are only us'd by guilty hearts.

II.

An honeft mind fafely alone

May travel through the burning zone;
Or through the deepest Scythian fnows,
Or where the fam'd Hydafpes flows.

III.

While, rul'd by a refiftlefs fire,
Our great + Orinda I admire,
The hungry wolves that fee me ftray,
Unarm'd and fingle, run away.

+ Mrs. Catharine Philips.

R

IV.

IV.

Set me in the remoteft place

That ever Neptune did embrace;

When there her image fills my breast,
Helicon is not half fo bleft.

V.

Leave me upon fome Libyan plain,
So fhe my fancy entertain,

And when the thirsty monfters meet,
They'll all pay homage to my feet.

VI.

The magic of Orinda's name,
Not only can their fiercenefs tame,

But, if that mighty word I once rehearse,
They seem fubmiffively to roar in verfe.

Part of the FIFTH SCENE of the SECOND ACT in GUARINI'S PASTOR FIDO,

TRANSLATE D.

AH happy grove! dark and secure retreat.

Of facred filence, reft's eternal feat;

How well your cool and unfrequented shade
Suits with the chafte retirements of a maid;
Oh! if kind heaven had been fo much my friend,
To make my fate upon my choice depend;
All my ambition I would here confine,
And only this Elyfium should be mine :

Fond

Fond men, by paffion wilfully betray'd,
Adore thofe idols which their fancy made;
Purchafing riches with our time and care,
We lose our freedom in a gilded snare ;
And, having all, all to ourselves refuse,
Oppreft with bleffings which we fear to use.
Fame is at best but an inconftant good,
Vain are the boafted titles of our blood;
We fooneft lose what we most highly prize,
And with our youth our short-liv'd beauty dies;
In vain our fields and flocks increase our store,
If our abundance makes us with for more;
How happy is the harmlefs country-maid,
Who, rich by nature, fcorns fuperfluous aid!
Whofe modeft cloaths no wanton eyes invite,
But like her foul preferves the native white;
Whofe little store her well-taught mind does please,
Nor pinch'd with want, nor cloy'd with wanton ease,
Who, free from ftorms, which on the great-ones fall,
Makes but few wishes, and enjoys them all;
No care but love can difcompofe her breast,
Love, of all cares, the fweetest and the best:
While on fweet grafs her bleating charge docs lie,
Our happy lover feeds upon her eye;

Not one on whom or Gods or men impofe,
But one whom love has for this lover chofe,
Under fome favourite myrtle's fhady boughs,
They speak their paffions in repeated vows,
And whilft a blush confeffes how the burns,
His faithful heart makes as fincere returns;

Thus in the arms of love and peace they lie,

And while they live, their flames can never die.

THE

DREA M.

To the pale tyrant, who to horrid graves
Condemns fo many thousand helpless flaves,
Ungrateful we do gentle fleep compare,

Who, though his victories as numerous are,
Yet from his flaves no tribute does he take,
But woeful cares that load men while they wake.
When his foft charms had eas'd my weary fight
Of all the baleful troubles of the light,
Dorinda came, divefted of the fcorn

Which the unequal'd maid fo long had worn ;
How oft, in vain, had Love's great God effay'd
To tame the ftubborn heart of that bright maid !
Yet, fpite of all the pride that fwells her mind,
The humble God of Sleep can make her kind.
A rifing blufh increas'd the native store
Of charms, that but too fatal were before.
Once more present the vision to my view,
The fweet illufion, gentle Fate, renew!
How kind, how lovely fhe, how ravish'd I!
Shew me, bleft God of Sleep, and let me die.

THE