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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
The hostile tyrant's beauteous bride,
Beholds him pouring to the fight,
As from the battlements fhe views
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.
How fair, how comely are our wounds,
In cur dear country's caufe!
For death's cold hand arrefts the fears
Bravely regardless of disgrace,
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,
With her has filence a reward,
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
WHOM firft, Melpomene, thy eye
Shall from his cradle rife renown'd,
And facred to the Mufe.
Nor to the Ifthmian games his fame
Nor fhall he wear the verdant wreath,
Fatigue the courser's speed;
Nor through the glorious cloud of dust,
Nor, as an haughty victor, mount
The Capitolian heights,
And proudly dedicate to Jove
Because his thundering hand in war
Has check'd the swelling tide
Of the stern tyrant's power, and broke
But by fweet Tybur's groves and streams
And fcorns the laurels of the war,
For thofe that crown the Mufe.
There in the most retir'd retreats,
To the sweet harp which Sappho touch'd,
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,
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
One moment let the crowding kingdoms wait,
Turns the high bulwark and aspiring mound,