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