The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)

He shook his miter'd locks, and stern bespake,

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How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies' fake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ?
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to fcramble at the fhearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ;
Blind mouths! that fearce themfelves know how to
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the least 120
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!

[hold

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What recks it them? What need they ì They are sped; And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their fcrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed, But fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mift they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace; and nothing faid, But that two-handed engin at the door Stands ready to fmite once, and fmite no more. Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That fhrunk thy ftreams; return, Sicilian Mufe, And call the vales, and bid them hither caft Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of fhades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whofe fresh lap the fwart ftar fparely looks,

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Throw

Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied showers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jeffamine,
The white pink, and the panfy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The mufk-rofe, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the penfive head,
And every flower that fad embroidery wears:
Bid amaranthus all his beauty fhed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

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To ftrow the laureat herse where Lycid lies.

For fo to interpofe a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with falfe furmife.

Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,

Whether beyond the ftormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Vifit'ft the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vifion of the guarded mount
Looks tow'ard Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

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Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, 165 For Lycidas your forrow is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So finks the day-ftar in the ocean bed,

And

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves,

Where other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpreffive nuptial fong,
In the bleft kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In folemn troops and sweet focieties,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

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Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with fandals gray, He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the fun had ftretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropt into the western bay; At last he rofe, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

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XVIII.

The Fifth ODE of HORACE, Lib. I.

"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rofa,"

Rendered almost word for word without rhyme, according to the Latin measure, as near as the language will permit.

W

'HAT flender youth bedew'd with liquid odors

Courts thee on roses in fome pleasant cave, Pyrrha for whom bind'st thou

In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatnefs? O how oft fhall he

On faith and changed Gods complain, and feas
Rough with black winds and ftorms

Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Who always vacant always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful? Haplefs they,

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To whom thou untry'd feem'ft fair. Me in my vow'd Picture the facred wall declares t' have hung

My dank and dropping weeds

To the ftern God of sea.

*First added in the edition of 1673.

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Ad

Ad PYRRHAM. ODE V.

Horatius ex Pyrrhæ illecebris tanquam è naufragio enataverat, cujus amore irretitos, affirmat effe miferos.

Q

UIS multa gracilis te puer in rofa
Perfufus liquidis urget odoribus,
Grato, Pyrrha, fub antro?

Cui flavam religas comam
Simplex munditiis? heu quoties fidem
Mutatofque deos flebit, et afpera
Nigris æquora ventis

Emirabitur infolens !

Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,
Qui femper vacuam femper amabilem
Sperat, nefcius auræ
Fallacis? Miferi quibus

Intentata nites. Me tabula facer

Votiva paries indicat uvida

Sufpendiffe potenti

Veftimenta maris Deo.

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