Ode 8.
This March-day incense, at the door1
Fuming of me a bachelor ;2
These flowers, on living turf this fire—3
Surprised, What mean they ? you inquire,4
Skill’d in the lore of Greece and Rome :5
—Know, when the tree near seal’d my doom,6
A snow-white goat to Bacchus I7
Vow’d grateful, and carousal high.8
And ever as that day the year9
Brings round, from rosin’d cork I clear10
The flask, in mellowing chimney placed11
When Tullus last the fasces graced.12
Mæcenas, to thy rescued friend13
Toss off an hundred bumpers. Blend14
With orient dawn the taper’s ray :15
Be noise, be quarrels far away !16
Dismiss thy cares about the state :17
The Dacian, Cotison is beat ;18
And Parthia, vex’d with civil arms,19
No longer works thy Rome alarms.20
Our ancient foes, the sons of Spain,21
At length put on the tardy chain :22
And Scythia’s hordes prepare to yield,23
With bow unstrung, the battle-field.24
Left to itself the public weal,25
Awhile from private interests steal :26
Forsake the toils and cares of power27
And snatch, and use, the present hour.28