of honours bid him rise,
     That, if his granary has stored away
       Of Libya’s thousand floors the yield entire;
       The man who digs his field as did his sire,
     With honest pride, no Attalus may sway
     By proffer’d wealth to tempt Myrtoan seas,
       The timorous captain of a Cyprian bark. 
       The winds that make Icarian billows dark
     The merchant fears, and hugs the rural ease
     Of his own village home; but soon, ashamed
       Of penury, he refits his batter’d craft. 
       There is, who thinks no scorn of Massic draught,
     Who robs the daylight of an hour unblamed,
     Now stretch’d beneath the arbute on the sward,
       Now by some gentle river’s sacred spring;
       Some love the camp, the clarion’s joyous ring,
     And battle, by the mother’s soul abhorr’d. 
     See, patient waiting in the clear keen air,
       The hunter, thoughtless of his delicate bride,
       Whether the trusty hounds a stag have eyed,
     Or the fierce Marsian boar has burst the snare. 
     To me the artist’s meed, the ivy wreath
       Is very heaven:  me the sweet cool of woods,
       Where Satyrs frolic with the Nymphs, secludes
     From rabble rout, so but Euterpe’s breath
     Fail not the flute, nor Polyhymnia fly
       Averse from stringing new the Lesbian lyre. 
       O, write my name among that minstrel choir,
     And my proud head shall strike upon the sky!

II.

Jam SATIS Terris.

Enough of snow and hail at last
The Sire has sent in vengeance down: 
His bolts, at His own temple cast,
Appall’d the town,
Appall’d the lands, lest Pyrrha’s time
Return, with all its monstrous sights,
When Proteus led his flocks to climb
The flatten’d heights,
When fish were in the elm-tops caught,
Where once the stock-dove wont to bide,
And does were floating, all distraught,
Adown the tide. 
Old Tiber, hurl’d in tumult back
From mingling with the Etruscan main,
Has threaten’d Numa’s court with wrack
And Vesta’s fane. 
Roused by his Ilia’s plaintive woes,
He vows revenge for guiltless blood,
And, spite of Jove, his banks o’erflows,
Uxorious flood. 
Yes, Fame shall tell of civic steel
That better Persian lives had spilt,
To youths, whose minish’d numbers feel
Their parents’ guilt. 
What god shall Rome invoke to stay
Her fall?  Can suppliance overbear
The ear of Vesta, turn’d away
From chant and prayer? 
Who comes, commission’d to atone
For crime like ours? at length appear,
A cloud round thy bright shoulders thrown,
Apollo seer! 
Or Venus, laughter-loving dame,
Round whom gay Loves and Pleasures fly;
Or thou, if slighted sons may claim
A parent’s eye,
O weary—­with thy long, long game,
Who lov’st fierce shouts and helmets