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ODE XXXVIII.

To his servant.

Boy, I detest the pomp of the Persians; chaplets, which are woven with the rind of the linden, displease me; give up the search for the place where the latter rose abides.  It is my particular desire that you make no laborious addition to the plain myrtle; for myrtle is neither unbecoming you a servant, nor me, while I quaff under this mantling vine.

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THE SECOND BOOK OF THE ODES OF HORACE.

ODE I.

To ASINIUS Pollio.

You are treating of the civil commotion, which began from the consulship of Metelius, and the causes, and the errors, and the operations of the war, and the game that fortune played, and the pernicious confederacy of the chiefs, and arms stained with blood not yet expiated—­a work full of danger and hazard:  and you are treading upon fires, hidden under deceitful ashes:  let therefore the muse that presides over severe tragedy, be for a while absent from the theaters; shortly, when thou hast completed the narrative of the public affairs, you shall resume your great work in the tragic style of Athens, O Pollio, thou excellent succor to sorrowing defendants and a consulting senate; [Pollio,] to whom the laurel produced immortal honors in the Dalmatian triumph.  Even now you stun our ears with the threatening murmur of horns:  now the clarions sound; now the glitter of arms affrights the flying steeds, and dazzles the sight of the riders.  Now I seem to hear of great commanders besmeared with, glorious dust, and the whole earth subdued, except the stubborn soul of Cato.  Juno, and every other god propitious to the Africans, impotently went off, leaving that land unrevenged; but soon offered the descendants of the conquerors, as sacrifices to the manes of Jugurtha.  What plain, enriched by Latin blood, bears not record, by its numerous sepulchres, of our impious battles, and of the sound of the downfall of Italy, heard even by the Medes?  What pool, what rivers, are unconscious of our deplorable war?  What sea have not the Daunian slaughters discolored?  What shore is unstained by our blood?  Do not, however, rash muse, neglecting your jocose strains, resume the task of Caean plaintive song, but rather with me seek measures of a lighter style beneath some love-sequestered grotto.

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ODE II.

To Crispus Sallustius.