TRANSLATIONS

FROM

HORA C E.

VOL. IV.

Y

THE

THIRD ODE of the FIRST BOOK

OF

HORACE.

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 fhip, be kind;
And gentle breezes fill thy fails,
Supplying foft Etesian 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 first the briny flood.:
Y a

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Nor

Nor fear'd the winds contending roar,

Nor billows beating on the fhore;
Nor Hyades portending ain;
Nor all the tyrants of the main.
What form of death could him affright,
Who unconcern'd, with stedfaft fight,
Could view the furges mounting steep,
And monfters 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 restrain
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 ghaftly crew,

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

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

This made not Daedalus 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 snow 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 sprightly wit and love infpires:

For what hereafter fhall betide,

God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.
Y 3

Let