BETA

Horace. Book III.

Ode 3.

Firm is the genuine patriot’s soul :1
Him nor the mob’s malign control,2
Nor furious despot’s frown combined3
Stirs from the purpose of his mind.4
Lightnings may flash ; o’er Adria’s wave5
The South-wind’s tyrant force may rave;6
May rend, may sink th’ o’erarching skies—7
Fearless amidst the wreck, he dies.8
With hearts so strung, to heaven’s repose9
Pollux and tost Alcides rose ;10
’Mid whom ’tis Cesar’s bliss to sip11
The nectar’d bowl with ruby lip.12
And thee thus gifted, Bacchus, too,13
Chafed by the yoke thy tigers drew :14
And, gifted thus, great Ilia’s son15
On Mars’ steeds ’scaped Acheron.16
Pleased, the high synod heard heaven’
Dame17
Pronounce, ‘ Troy, Troy is wrapp’d in
flame,18
By judge corrupt foredoom’d its wall,19
And foreign beauty’s lure to fall :20
To mine and to Minerva’s levin21
Its fraudful prince and people given,22
Then, when in vain their bargain’d meed23
The builder-Gods solicited.24
Glitters no more in Phrygian vest25
Adulterous Helen’s lustful guest :26
No more, upheld. by Hector’s hand,27
The perjur’d towers of Priam stand.28
Fed by our feuds, the war expires,29
And with it die this bosom’s fires !30
My hated kin, whom Ilia bore,31
For Mars’ sake I hate no more.32
Be his, to tread this star-paved plan ;33
His, the bright wine of Gods to drain ;34
And his, to live—I not gainsay—35
Rank’d with our care-free’d hosts for aye.36
So the broad ocean roll between37
Their Rome and Troy’s detested scene,38
Reign they—where’er the exlies’ lot—39
In proudest state ! I murmur not.40
So the wild herds mock Priam’s pride,41
And in his tombe the litters hide42
Secure—her Capitol may tower,43
And Parthia ae beneath its power.44
And wide extend her name of dread,45
Wide as the midland billows spread,46
Which from fair Europe part the Moor—47
Or where old Nile’s rich torrents roar.48
“ Of gold in its dark cemetry,49
So better hid—disdainful, she50
Drags not the buried mischief forth,51
With impious hand, from mother Earth.52
Where’er the world’s far limit stand,53
Visit that bourn her conquering bands ;54
Rejoiced ’mid tropic fires to glow,55
Or firth and freeze in polar snow.56
Bind but the hero-race this law—57
That them nor pride of triump draw,58
Nor fatal piety ensnare,59
The shatter’d domes of Troy to rear60
Should Troy afresh her turrets raise,61
Again the ill-starr’d pile should blaze ;62
The victor-hosts again I’d move,63
Dread wife and sister I of Jove.64
Should Phœbus self thrice build the wall65
Of sturdiest brass, it thrice should fall,66
My Argives’ prey ; and thrice, with deep67
Long wail, her captive dames should weep.”68
But these are themes for lighter shell69
Unfit : my Muse, bethink thee well ;70
Nor dare the strains of Gods rehearse,71
Degraded by thy humble verse.72