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For the Rhymes, which have been occasionally introduced, it is, perhaps, unnecessary to offer any apology. They seem to conform, if not to the letter, at least, to the spirit of the original; and to indicate, with tolerable distinctness, the divisions of the Choriambic verse.

And now, whether the Author of the following pages shall carry out his design of producing in the original measures a complete translation of these Odes, it remains for thee, gentle reader,

to determine:

crimine ab uno

Disce omnes.






MÆCENAS, whence for me grace and protection

springs : Thou who art derived, too, from a long line of kings! There are, whom, with the car, pleasure supreme it

yields To gain dust from the plain, in the Olympic fields : The crown, bringing renown,-goals by the hot

wheels grazed,

Each, oft, earth's lords aloft up to the Gods hath



For one, if have begun vain Roman crowds to vie

How they, changeable, may raise him to dignity :
Him too, in his barn who garnereth-up the grain,
E'en whate'er can be got out of the Libyan plain :
Who still loveth to till in his paternal field :-
Him, ne'er for the rich fare Attalus' wealth could

yield, Great king, e'en canst thou bring, timorous sailor,


That the Myrtoän sea, with Cyprus' beam, he plough.

Fear for Afric's wind's war with the Icarian seas

Doth teach merchants to each laud his own rural

ease ;

But let ships be wrecked, yet hastens he their repair :
Ne'er he trained can be poverty's gripe to bear.
The fine old Massic wine-goblet some ne'er contemn:
Away from the long day portions are ta’en by them;
Limbs e'en stretched, 'neath the green arbutus' leafy


Lying, or of some spring at the calm fountain laid.

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Mars' field pleasure can yield many, with tents o'er

spread :

Trumpet with the fife met: wars which the matrons


Again, long will remain, under the chill night-air, Huntsmen; nor do they then think of their wives so


If deer once shall appear unto their faithful hounds,

Or, more, if a wild boar through the close network


Ivy-coronals me—honours for learned brows,

Sweet praise,-to the Gods raise; me the grove's

shady boughs, And the light chorus me, Satyrs and Nymphs, remove, Not few; either if Euterpe doth not reprove Her mute soft-breathing flute, or Polyhymnia own Dislike that she should strike her Lesbian barbiton.

But, deign of the LYRE's strain that thou shouldst

name my lays, Soon high to the stars I shall my proud head upraise !

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