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What form of Death could him affright,
Who unconcerned, with stedfast sight,
Could view the surges mounting steep,
And monsters rolling in the deep!
Could through the ranks of ruin go,
With storms above, and rocks below!
In vain did Nature's wise command
Divide the waters from the land,
If daring ships and men prophane
Invade th' inviolable main;
Th' eternal fences over-leap,
And pass at will the boundless deep.
No toil, no hardship, can restrain
Ambitious man inur'd to pain;
The more confin'd, the more he tries,
And at forbidden quarry flies.
Thus bold Prometheus did aspire,

And stole from Heaven the seeds of fire:
A train of ills, a ghastly crew,
The robber's blazing track pursue:
Fierce Famine with her meagre face,
And fevers of the fiery race,

In swarms th' offending wretch surround,
All brooding on the blasted ground:
And limping Death, lash'd on by Fate,
Comes up to shorten half our date.
This made not Dædalus beware,
With borrow'd wings to sail in air:
To Hell Alcides forc'd his way,

Plung'd through the lake, and snatch'd the prey.
Nay scarce the gods, or heavenly climes,
Are safe from our audacious crimes;
We reach at Jove's imperial crown,
And pull th' unwilling thunder down.

THE NINTH ODE

OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

BEHOLD
yon mountain's hoary height
Made higher with new mounts of snow;
Again behold the winter's weight

Oppress the labouring woods below :
And streams, with icy fetters bound,
Benumb'd and crampt to solid ground.
With well-heap'd logs dissolve the cold,
And feed the genial hearth with fires;
Produce the wine, that makes us bold,
And sprightly wit and love inspires:
For what hereafter shall betide,
God, if 'tis worth his care, provide.

Let him alone, with what he made,
To toss and turn the world below;
At his command the storms invade;
The winds by his commission blow;
Till with a nod he bids them cease,

And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

To-morrow and her works defy,

Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by, To put them out of Fortune's power: Nor love, nor love's delights disdain; Whate'er thou gett'st to-day, is gain.

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Those very shades and streams new shades and streams require,

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

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 inquisitive to know : But God has, wisely, hid from human sight The dark decrees of future fate,

And sown their seeds in depth of night; He laughs at all the giddy turns of state;

In my small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar;

And, running with a merry gale, With friendly stars my safety seek Within some little winding creek: And see the storm ashore.

THE SECOND EPODE OF

HORACE.

How happy in his low degree,

When mortals search too soon, and fear too late. How rich in humble poverty, is he,

Enjoy the present smiling hour,
And put it out of Fortune's power:

The tide of business, like the running stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

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 rolling down,
Sheep and their folds together drown:
Both house and homestead into seas are borne,
And rocks are from their old foundations torn,
And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd

honours mourn.

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Fortune, that, with malicious joy,

Does man her slave oppress,

Proud of her office to destroy,
Is seldom pleas'd to bless :
Still various and unconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,
Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;

But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings and will not stay,
I puff the prostitute away:

[sign'd:
The little or the much she gave, is quietly re-
Content with poverty, my soul 1 arm;
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

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Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of strife,
And from the griping scrivener free!
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own

Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets summon him to war,

Nor drums disturb his morning sleep,
Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,
The clamours of contentious law,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.

And court, and state, he wisely shuns,
Nor, brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,
To servile salutations runs;

But either to the clasping vine

Does the supporting 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 sheers his overburthen'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,
Of virgin honey in the jars.

Or in the now-declining year,

He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

When bounteous autumn rears his head,

And clustering grapes with purple spread, The fairest of his fruit he serves,

Priapus, thy rewards: Sylvanus too his part deserves,

Whose care the fences guards. Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,

Or on the matted grass, he lies;
No god of sleep he need invoke ;

The stream that o'er the pebbles flies
With gentle slumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays
Maintains the concert of the song;
And hidden birds with native lays
The golden sleep prolong.
But, when the blast of winter blows,
And hoary frost inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

And seeks the tusky boar to rear,
With well-mouth'd hounds and pointed spear!
Or spreads his subtle nets from sight

With twinkling glasses, to betray The larks that in the meshes light,

Or makes the fearful hare his prey. Amidst his harmless easy joys

No anxious care invades his health, Nor love his peace of mind destroys,

Nor wicked avarice of wealth. But if a chaste and pleasing wife, To ease the business of his life,

Divides with him his household care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,

Sun-burnt and swarthy though she be, Will fire for winter-nights provide,

And without noise will oversee
His children and his family;
And order all things till he come,
Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;
If she in pens his flocks will fold,

And then produce her dairy store,
With wine to drive away the cold,

And unbought dainties of the poor; Not ovsters of the Lucrine lake

My sober appetite would wish, Nor turbot, or the foreign fish That rolling tempests overtake,

And hither waft the costly dish. Not heathpout, or the rarer bird,

Which Phasis or Ionia yields, More pleasing morsels would afford Than the fat olives of my fields;

Than shards or mallows for the pot,
That keep the loosen'd body sound,
Or than the lamb, that falls by lot

To the just guardian of my ground.
Amidst these feasts of happy swains,

The jolly shepherd smiles to see
His flock returning from the plains;
The farmer is as pleas'd as he
To view his oxen sweating smoke,
Bear on their necks the loosen'd yoke:
To look upon his menial crew,

That sit around his cheerful hearth,
And bodies spent in toil renew

With wholesome food and country mirth.

This Morecraft said within himself,

Resolv'd to leave the wicked town:
And live retir'd upon his own,

He call'd his money in;

But the prevailing love of pelf, Soon split him on the former shelf, He put it out again.

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THE

POEMS

OF

EDMUND SMITH.

B

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