Horat. Ode 29. Book 3. Paraphras'd in Pindarique Verfe; and infcrib'd to the Right Honourable Lawrence Earl of Rochester.
Efcended of an ancient Line,
De That long the Infian Scepter sway'd,
Make hafte to meet the generous Wine,
Whofe piercing is for thee delay'd:
The rofie Wreath is ready made;
And artful hands prepare
The fragrant Syrian Oil, that shall perfume thy Hair.
When the Wine fparkles from afar,
And the well-natur'd Friend cries, come away; Make hafte, and leave thy Business and thy Care, No mortal int'reft can be worth thy ftay.
Leave for a while thy coftly Country Seat;
And, to be great indeed, forget
The naufeous Pleafures 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 bufie pageantry
That wife Men fcorn, and Fools adore:
Come, give thy Soul adoofe, and tafte the Pleasures of
Sometimes 'tis grateful to the Rich, to try
A fhort viciffitude, and fit of Poverty:
A favoury Dish, a homely Treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the ftately fpacious Room,
The Perfian Carpet, or the Tyrian Loom,
Clear up the cloudy Foreheads of the Great.
The Sun is in the Lion mounted high;
The Syrian Star
Barks from afar;
And with his fultry Breath infects the Sky; [fry. The Ground below is parch'd, the Heav'ns above us The Shepherd drives his fainting Flock,
Beneath the covert of a Rock;
And seeks refreshing Rivulets nigh :
The Sylvans to their Shades retire,
Those very Shades and Streams, new Shades and
[ing fire. And want a cooling breeze of Wind to fan the rage
Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,
And what the City Faction dare,
And what the Gallick Arms will do,
And what the Quiver-bearing Foe,
Art anxiously inquifitive to know:
But God has, wisely, hid from human Sight
The dark Decrees of future Fate;
And fown their Seeds 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 present smiling Hour;
And put it out of Fortune's Pow'r :
The tide of business, like the running Stream,
Is fometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet Ebb, or a tempeftuous Flow,
And always in extream.
Now with a noiseless gentle Course
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 rowling down,
Sheep and their Folds together drown:
Both House and Homefted into Seas are born, And Rocks are from their old Foundations torn, And Woods made thin with Winds, their fcatter'd
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 poffeft, in fpight of Fate are mine.
Not Heav'n it felf upon the paft has Pow'r;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my Hour.
Fortune, that with malicious Joy,
Does Man her Slave opprefs,
Proud of her Office to deftroy,
Is feldom pleas'd to blefs.
Still various and unconftant ftill;
But with an Inclination to be ill;
Promotes, degrades, delights in Strife,
And makes a Lottery of Life.
I can enjoy her while fhe's kind;
But when the dances in the Wind,
And shakes her Wings, and will not stay,
I puff the Proftiture away:
The little or the much the gave, is quietly refign'd:
Content with Poverty, my Soul I arm;
And Virtue, tho' in Rags, will keep me warm.
Who never fail in her unfaithful Sea,
If Storms arife, and Clouds grow black;
If the Maft fplit 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.)
In my fmall Pinnace I can fail,
Contemning all the bluftring roar;
And running with a merry Gale,
With friendly Stars my fafety seck
Within fome little winding Creek;
And fee the Storm a-fhore,
OW happy in his low Degree,
How rich in humble Poverty, is he,
Who leads a quiet Country Life!
Difcharg'd of Bufinefs, void of Strife,
And from the griping Scrivener free.
(Thus e'er the Seeds of Vice were fown,
Liv'd Men in better Ages born,
Who plow'd with Oxen of their own
Their fmall paternal Field of Com.)
Nor Trumpers fummon him to War
Nor Drums difturb his Morning Sleep,
Nor knows he Merchants gainful Care,
Nor fears the Dangers of the Deep.
The clamours of contentious Law,
And Court and State he wifely shuns,
Nor brib'd with Hopes nor dar'd with Awe-
To fervile Salutations runs:
But either to the clafping Vine
Does the fupporting Poplar wed,
Or with his pruning Hook disjoin
Unbearing Branches from their Head,
And grafts more happy in their stead:
Or climbing to a hilly Steep
He views his Herds in Vales afar,
Or fheers his overburden'd Sheep,
Or Mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of Virgin Honey in the Jars.
Or in the now declining Year,
When bounteous Autumn rears his Head,
He joys to pull the ripen'd Pear,
And cluftring Grapes with Purple spread,
The fairest of his Fruit he ferves,
Priapus thy rewards:
Sylvanus too his part deferves,
Whofe care the fences guards.
Sometimes beneath an ancient Oak,
Or on the matted Grafs he lyes;
No God of Sleep he need invoke,
The ftream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle Slumber crowns his Eyes.
The Wind that whiftles through the Sprays
Maintains the confort of the Song ;
And hidden Birds with native lays
The golden fleep prolong.
But when the blaft of Winter blows,
And hoary froft inverts the Year,
Into the naked Woods he goes
And feeks the tusky Boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd Hounds and pointed Spear.
Or fpreads his fubtile Nets from fight
With twinkling Glaffes, to betray
The Larks that in the Mefhes light,
Or makes the fearful Hare his prey.
Amidst his harmless eafie joys
No anxious Care invades his Health,
Nor Love his peace of Mind destroys,
Nor wicked avarice of Wealth.
But if a chaft and pleafing Wife,
To eafe the business of his Life,
Divides with him his houfhold care,
Such as the Sabine Matrons were,
|