Ye boys, Tempe's sweet vale, with the like praise,

commend ;

Delos, also, the famed place of Apollo's birth;

And his shoulder distinguished

By his quiver, and brother's lyre!

Dread war, doleful and sad, famine and pestilence,

From us and from our Prince, Cæsar, against his

foes,

Persians and the far Britons,

He then, moved by your prayers, will turn.

E

XXII.

TO ARISTIUS FUSCUS.

He who a life leads upright, and from guile free, Nor the Moor's bow, nor javelin requireth,

Nor, with the arrows poison-tipped full-stored,

Fuscus, the quiver;

Whether he journey through the burning Syrtes,

Or the unfriendly Caucasus, or regions

Which the Hydaspes laveth with its waters,

River of story!

For, lo! a wolf has fled me in Sabine wood,
Whilst I did hymn my Lalage, and wander,
All cares dispelling, out beyond my limits,

Fled me unarmed!

Monster so fearsome, neither warlike Daunia,

Through its wide borders, famed for beech-groves,

reareth;

Nor hath e'er fostered Juba's land, the arid

Nurse of the lion.

Place me on barren plains, where trees are never

With the mild breezes of the summer freshened;

That of earth's climes which low'ring clouds, and

angry

Jupiter trouble:

Place me beneath the sun's bright car too closely,

In a dread region, as our home forbidden:

With her sweet laughter, Lalage I'll still love,

With her sweet accents!

XXIII.

TO CHLOË.

CHLOË, me thou avoid'st, like as a trembling fawn

Her dam timidly seeks, over the trackless hills

Fleeing, not without vain fear

Of the breezes and waving woods.

For, if, at the approach of the spring-time, the leaves, Rustling, shall have been stirred, or if the greenbacked snakes,

Gliding, shall have a branch moved,

A thrill runs through her heart and limbs.

But I do not pursue, as a wild tiger, thee,
To rend fiercely, or like lion Gætulia-born;
Cease thy mother to seek, then,
At length, now thou art ripe for love!

XXIV.

TO VIRGIL.

WHAT blame or what false shame to our regret belongs For such as we love much? Solemn funereal songs Teach me, Melpomene: thou unto whom the Sire Has giv'n, with a sweet voice, the lyre!

For sleep, endless and deep, hath our Quinctilius bound. Say where Modesty e'er,-sister of Justice found, Good Faith, knowing no scathe,-Truth with unveiled limb

E'er found any to equal him?

He slept, sadly bewept: many a noble breast,
But not deeper I wot, Virgil, than thine, distressed.
No more need'st thou implore him of each Deity,

Alas! not so intrusted thee!