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The THIRD ODE of the Second Book of HORACE, Paraphrafed.

LET the brave youth be train`d, the ftings

Of poverty to bear,

And in the school of want be taught

The exercise of war.

Let him be practis'd in his bloom,

To listen to alarms,

And learn proud Parthia to fubdue
With unrefifted arms.

The hostile tyrant's beauteous bride,
Distracted with despair,

Beholds him pouring to the fight,
And thundering through the war.

As from the battlements fhe views
The flaughter of his fword,
Thus fhall the fair express her grief,
And terrors for her Lord:

Look down, ye gracious powers, from heaven,

Nor let my confort go,

Rude in the arts of war, to fight

This formidable foe.

Oh! not with half that dreadful rage

The royal favage flies,

When, at the flighteft touch, he fprings

And darts upon his prize.

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How fair, how comely are our wounds,

In cur dear country's caufe!
What fame attends the glorious fate,
That props our dying laws!

For death's cold hand arrefts the fears
That haunt the coward's mind;
Swift the purfues the flying wretch,-
And wounds him from behind.

Bravely regardless of disgrace,
Bold virtue ftands alone,
With pure unfully'd glory fhines,
And honours ftill her own.

From the dark grave, and filent duft,

She bids her fons arife,

And to the radiant train unfolds

The portals of the skies.

Now, with triumphant wings, fhe foars,

Above the realms of day,

Spurns the dull earth, and groveling crowd,
And towers th' ethereal way.

With her has filence a reward,
Within the blefs'd abodes,
That holy filence which conceals

The fecrets of the Gods.

But with a wretch I would not live,

By facrilege prophan'd,

Nor lodge beneath one roof, nor launch

One veffel from the land:


For, blended with the bad, the good

The common stroke have felt,

And heaven's dire vengeance ftruck alike

At innocence and guilt.

The wrath divine purfues the wretch,

At prefent lame, and flow,

But yet, though tardy to advance,

She gives the furer blow.

The THIRD ODE of the Fourth Book of


HORACE, Paraphrafed.

WHOM firft, Melpomene, thy eye
With friendly aspect views,

Shall from his cradle rife renown'd,

And facred to the Mufe.

Nor to the Ifthmian games his fame
And deathless triumphs owe;

Nor fhall he wear the verdant wreath,
That shades the champion's brow.
Nor in the wide Elæan plains

Fatigue the courser's speed;

Nor through the glorious cloud of dust,
Provoke the bounding steed.

Nor, as an haughty victor, mount

The Capitolian heights,

And proudly dedicate to Jove
The trophies of his fights.

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Because his thundering hand in war

Has check'd the swelling tide

Of the stern tyrant's power, and broke
The measures of his pride.

But by fweet Tybur's groves and streams
His glorious theme pursues,

And fcorns the laurels of the war,

For thofe that crown the Mufe.

There in the most retir'd retreats,
He fets his charming fong,

To the sweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
Or bold Alcæus ftrung.

Rank'd by thy fons, Imperial Rome,

Among the poet's quire,

Above the reach of envy's hand

I fafely may aspire.

Thou facred Mufe, whofe artful hand

Can teach the bard to fing;

Can animate the golden lyre,

And wake the living string:

Thou, by whofe mighty power, may fing,

In unaccustom'd strains,

The filent fishes in the floods,

As on their banks the fwans.

To thee I owe my spreading fame,
That thousands, as they gaze,

Make me their wonder's common theme,

And object of their praise.


If first I Aruck the Lesbian lyre,

No fame belongs to me;

I owe my honours, when I please,

(If e'er I please) to thee.

On the approaching CONGRESS of CAMBRAY. Written in 1721.


E patriots of the world, whofe cares combin'd
Confult the public welfare of mankind,

One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait,
And Europe in fufpence attend her fate,
Which turns on your great councils; nor refuse
To hear the ftrains of the prophetic Muse;
Who fees thofe councils with a generous care
Heal the wide wounds, and calm the rage of war;
She fees new verdure all the plain o'erspread,
Where the fight burn'd, and where the battle bled.
The fields of death a softer scene disclose,
And Ceres fmiles where iron harvests rofe.
The bleating flocks along the bastion pass,
And from the awful ruins crop the grass.
Freed from his fears, each unmolested fwain,
In peaceful furrows cuts the fatal plain ;

Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound,
And fees the camp with all the seasons crown'd.
Beneath each clod, bright burnish'd arms appear;
Each furrow glitters with the pride of war ;
The fields refound and tinkle as they break,
And the keen faulchion rings against the rake;


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