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The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain,

(The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)


He fhook his miter'd locks, and ftern befpake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young fwain,
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 scramble at the shearers' feast,



And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that fcarce themselves know how to
A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought else the least 120
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their fcrannel pipes of wretched ftraw;
The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:



Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace; and nothing said,
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 shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither caft
Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. 135
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the fwart ftar fparely looks,

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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 forfaken 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,


To ftrow the laureat herfe where Lycid lies.

For fo to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmife.

Ay me! Whilft 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 monftrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moift vows deny'd,
Sleep'ft by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision 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.



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 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 societies,


That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the fhepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and fhalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.



Thus fang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with fandals gray, He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the fun had stretch'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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The Fifth ODE* of HORACE, Lib. I.

"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rofa,”

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

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 neatness? O how oft shall he

On faith and changed Gods complain, and feas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,

Who always vacant always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful? Hapless they

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

My dank and dropping weeds

To the ftern God of fea.

* First added in the edition of 1673.







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


UIS multa gracilis te puer in rofa
Perfufus liquidis urget odoribus,
Grato, Pyrrha, sub 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

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