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 prelent hour, And snatch the pleasures paffing by,

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

V.

Secure thofe golden early joys,

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

The belt is but in feafon best.

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, thefe are joys the Gods for youth ordain.

}

}

The

The Twenty-ninth ODE of the FIRST BOOK of HORA CE.

Paraphras'd in Pindaric Verfe, and infcribed to the Right Hon. Laurence Earl of Rochester.

I.

DESCENDED of an ancient line,

That long the Tuscan fceptre fway'd,
Make hafte to meet the generous wine,
Whofe piercing is for thee delay'd:
The rofy wreath is ready made:

And artful hands prepare

The fragrant Syrian oil, that fhall perfume thy hair.

II.

When the wine fparkles from afar,

And the well-natur'd friend cries Come away; Make hafte, and leave thy bufinefs and thy care: No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.

III.

Leave for a while thy coftly country seat ;
And, to be great indeed, forget
The nauseous pleasures of the great :

Make hafte and come:

Come, and forfake thy cloying store;

Thy turret that surveys, from high,

The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;

And all the busy pageantry

That wife men fcorn, and fools adore :

Come, give thy foul a loofe, and tafte the pleafures of

the poor.

IV.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich, to try
A fhort viciffitude, and fit of poverty:
A favory dish, a homely treat,

Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,

The Perfian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

V.

The Sun is in the Lion mounted high ;
The Syrian ftar,

Barks from afar,

And with his fultry breath infects the sky; The ground below is parch'd, the Heavens above us fry. The shepherd drives his fainting flock

Beneath the covert of a rock,

And feeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

The Sylvans to their shades retire,

Thofe very fhades and streams new fhades and ftreams require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire.

VI.

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,

And what the city factions dare,

And what the Gallic arms will do,

And what the quiver-bearing foe,

Art anxiously inquifitive to know:

But God has, wifely, hid from human fight

The

The dark decrees of future fate,
And fown their feeds in depth of night;

He laughs at all the giddy turns of state;

When mortals fearch too foon, and fear too late.

VII.

Enjoy the prefent finiling hour;

And put it out of fortune's power:

The tide of bufinefs, like the running ftream,
Is fometimes high, and fometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempeftuous flow,
And always in extreme.

Now with a noifelefs gentle courfe
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;
And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown:

Both houfe and homested into feas are borne ;

And rocks are from their old foundations torn,

And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd ho

nours mourn.

VIII.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own:
He who, fecure within, can fay,

To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day;

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or fhine,

The joys I have poffefs'd, in spite of fate are mine,
Not Heaven itfelf upon the past has power;

But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Fortune,

IX.

Fortune, that, with malicious joy,
Does man her flave opprefs,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is feldom pleas'd to bless :
Still various and unconftant ftill,
But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in ftrife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while fhe 's kind;

But when the dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings and will not stay,

I puff the prostitute away :

The little or the much she gave, is quietly refign'd: Content with poverty, my foul I arm;

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm,

X.

What is't to me,

Who never fail in her unfaithful fea,

If ftorms arife, and clouds grow black;
If the mast split, and threaten wreck ?
Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to Gods that will not hear,

While the debating winds and billows bear
His wealth into the main.

For me,

fecure from fortune's blows,

Secure of what I cannot lofe,