When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
  Ambition’s fury fired the Grecian king:  10
  Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
  He pants for room, in one poor world confined. 
  Thus waked to rage, by Music’s dreadful power,
  He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour. 
  Had Stella’s gentler touches moved the lyre,
  Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire: 
  No more delighted with destructive war,
  Ambitious only now to please the fair;
  Resign’d his thirst of empire to her charms,
  And found a thousand worlds in Stella’s arms. 20

* * * * *

  PARAPHRASE

  OF PROVERBS, CHAP.  IV.  VERSES 6-11.

  “Go to the ant, thou sluggard!”

  Turn on the prudent ant thy heedless eyes,
  Observe her labours, sluggard! and be wise. 
  No stern command, no monitory voice
  Prescribes her duties or directs her choice;
  Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,
  To snatch the blessings of a plenteous day;
  When fruitful Summer loads the teeming plain,
  She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.

   How long shall Sloth usurp thy useless hours,
  Unnerve thy vigour, and unchain thy powers? 10
  While artful shades thy downy couch inclose,
  And soft solicitation courts repose,
  Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
  Year chases year with unremitted flight;
  Till Want now following, fraudulent and slow,
  Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush’d foe.

* * * * *

  HORACE,

  LIB.  IV.  ODE VII.  TRANSLATED.

  The snow, dissolved, no more is seen,
  The fields and woods, behold! are green. 
  The changing year renews the plain,
  The rivers know their banks again;
  The sprightly Nymph and naked Grace
  The mazy dance together trace;
  The changing year’s successive plan
  Proclaims mortality to man. 
  Rough Winter’s blasts to Spring give way,
  Spring yields to Summer’s sovereign ray; 10
  Then Summer sinks in Autumn’s reign,
  And Winter chills the world again: 
  Her losses soon the moon supplies,
  But wretched man, when once he lies
  Where Priam and his sons are laid,
  Is nought but ashes, and a shade. 
  Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,
  Will toss us in a morning more? 
  What with your friend you nobly share,
  At least you rescue from your heir. 20
  Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,
  When Minos once has fix’d your doom,
  Or eloquence, or splendid birth,
  Or virtue, shall restore to earth. 
  Hippolytus, unjustly slain,
  Diana calls to life in vain;
  Nor can the might of Theseus rend
  The chains of Hell that hold his friend.

* * * * *