A noble thirst, and not unknown to me,
While smoothly wafted on a calmer sea.
But can a wretch like Ovid pant for fame,
No, rather let the world forget my name.
Is it because that world approved my strain,
You prompt me to the same pursuit again?
No, let the Nine the ungrateful truth excuse,
I charge my hopeless ruin on the muse,
And, like Perillus, meet my just desert,
The victim of my own pernicious art,
Fool that I was to be so warn'd in vain,
And shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again.
Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land,
None to consult, and none to understand.
The purest verse has no admirers here,
Their own rude language only suits their ear.
Rude as it is, at length familiar grown,
I learn it, and almost unlearn my own—
Yet to say truth, e'en here the muse disdains
Confinement, and attempts her former strains,
But finds the strong desire is not the power,
And what her taste condemns, the flames devour.
A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom,
And though unworthy, finds a friend at Rome;
But oh the cruel art, that could undo
Its votary thus! would that could perish too!
SEE'ST thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow,
The streams, congeal'd, forget to flow,
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;
Broach the best cask, and make old winter smile
With seasonable mirth.
This be our part-let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.
E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow's pass'd away,
We at least shall have to say,
We have lived another day;
Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.
Persicos odi, puer, apparatus.
Boy, I hate their empty shows,
Persian garlands I detest,
Bring not me the late-blown rose,
Lingering after all the rest .
Plainer myrtle pleases me,
Thus outstretch'd beneath my vine;
Myrtle more becoming thee,
Waiting with thy master's wine.
HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.
Boy! I detest all Persian fopperies,
Fillet-bound garlands are to me disgusting;
Task not thyself with any search, I charge thee,
Where latest roses linger,
Bring me alone (for thou wilt find that readily)
Plain myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage
Thee occupied to serve me, or me drinking
Beneath my vine's cool shelter.
HOR. LIB. II. ODE XVI.
Otium Divos rogat in patenti.
EASE is the weary merchant's prayer,
Who ploughs by night the Ægean flood,
When neither moon nor stars appear,
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud.
For ease the Mede with quiver graced,
For ease the Thracian hero sighs,
Delightful ease all pant to taste,
A blessing which no treasure buys.
For neither gold can lull to rest,
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off
The tumults of a troubled breast,
The cares that haunt a gilded roof.
Happy the man whose table shows
A few clean ounces of old plate,
No fear intrudes on his repose,
No sordid wishes to be great.
Poor short lived things, what plans we lay!
Ah, why forsake our native home!
To distant climates speed away;
For self sticks close where'er we roam.
Care follows hard, and soon o'ertakes
The well rigg'd ship, the warlike steed
Her destined quarry ne'er forsakes,
Not the wind flies with half her speed.
From anxious fears of future ill
Guard well the cheerful, happy now;
Gild e'en your sorrows with a smile,
No blessing is unmix'd below.
Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds,
Thy numerous flocks around thee graze,
And the best purple Tyre affords
Thy robe magnificent displays.
On me indulgent Heaven bestow'd
A rural mansion, neat and small;
This lyre; and as for yonder crowd,
The happiness to hate them all.
ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY
FROM SEA-BATHING IN THE YEAR 1789.
O SOVEREIGN of an isle renown'd
For undisputed sway,
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound
Her navies wing their way,
With juster claim she builds at length
Her empire on the sea,
And well may boast the waves her strength
Which strength restored to thee.
PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE.*
AND dwells there in a female heart,
By bounteous heaven design'd,
The choicest raptures to impart,
To feel the most refined
Dwells there a wish in such a breast
Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest
At once both bliss and woe!
* For Mrs. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. v. p. 202.
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