ODE I. TO C, ASINIUS POLLIO.

He advises Pollio to forbear the writing of tragedy for a feafon, till the ftate fhould be fettled. And afterwards be praifes his compofitions.

THE war, that rofe from civil hate

In that Metellian confulate,

Our vices, measures, and the fport of chance, The famous triple league, the Roman fhield and lance, With gore unexpiated, fmear'd,

A work whofe fate is to be fear'd

You treat, and on those treacherous afhes tread, Beneath whose seeming furface glow the embers red.

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and the grievous connection of the chiefs; and arms beImeared with gore, not yet expiated a work full of dangerous upfhot-and you walk through fires hid under treacherous

afhes.

Paulum feveræ mufa tragœdiæ

Defit theatris: mox ubi publicas
Res ordinâris, grande munus
Cecropio repetes cothurno,
Infigne mostis præfidium reis,
Et confulenti Pollio curiæ:

Cui Laurus æternos honores
Dalmatico peperit triumpho.
Jam nunc minaci murmure cornuum
Perftringis aures, jam litui ftrepunt:
Jam fulgor armorum fugaces

Terret equos, equitumque vultus.
'Audire magnos jam videor duces
Non indecoro pulvere fordidos:
Et cuncta terrarum subacta,

Præter atrocem animum Catonis,

Juno, & deorum quifquis amicior
Afris, inultâ cefferat impotens

Tellure: victorum nepotes
Rettulit inferias Jugurtha.

Quis non Latino fanguine pinguior
Campus fepulchris impia prælia

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afhes. Let the mufe of fevere tragedy be a while absent from the theatre: anon, when you fhall have fettled the public affairs, you fhall refume the grand work in the Athenian buskin. O Pollio, the celebrated auxiliary of the forrowful culprits, and the confulting fenate, for whom the laurel yielded eternal honour, in the Dalmation triumph; even now you ftun our ears with the menacing found of the horns; now the clarions bray; now the lightning of arms affright the flying fteeds, and the afpects of the horfemen. Now I feem

to

O fpare a little to repeat

Your tragic. verse severely fweet;

Soon, when the public weal you shall replace,
Your grand Athenian works again the stage shall grace.
Thou who defend'ft the poor with zeal,

To whom the confcript house appeal,
For whom the fertile laurels, that you wore
In that Dalmatian triumph, deathless honour bore.
E'en now you make my tingling ear

The din of martial trumpets hear,

Now clarions bray, and men in armour bright The routed horfe and horsemen with their lightning fright, Now mighty captains I perceive,

In clouds of glorious duft atchieve

Eternal fame, and all the world their own;
Save the ferocious fire of Cato's foul alone.

Juno and every pow'r propense,
Like her, for Africa's defence,
When unreveng❜d they left their darling coaft,
Offer'd the victor's grandfons to Jugurtha's ghost.
Say where the blood of Romans slain,
Has not made fertile every plain

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to fee mighty captains, disfigured with no unbecoming duft, and the whole earth reduced, except the inflexible foul of Cato. Juno, and whichfoever of the gods was more favourable to the Africans, went off without being able to exert their power, leaving that land unrevenged, but in a season offered the defcendants of the victors, as facrifices to the manes of Jugurtha. What plain, made fatter by Roman blood, does not bear witnefs of our impious battles by its monuments,

Teftatur, auditumque Medis
Hefperiæ fonitum, ruinæ ?

Qui gurges, aut quæ flumina lugubris
Ignara belli? quod mare Dauniæ
Non decoloravere cædes?

Quæ caret ora cruore noftro ?
Sed ne relictis Mufa procax jocis
Ceæ retractes munera næniæ:
Mecum Dionæo fub antro

Quære modos leviore plectro.

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monuments, and of the noife of Italy's ruin heard by the Medes? What gulph, what rivers are ignorant of our lamentable war? What fea has not the Daunian carnage difcoloured? What fhore is without our blood? But do not,

wanton

Whose monuments record our impious deeds,

And our great downfal heard by the remotest Medes? What gulphs, what rivers in their flow

Do not our dire diffenfions know?

What fea is not difcolour'd by the

gore

Of Romans bafely flain, what climate, or what shore?

But leaving mirth, O do not urge

My Pollio's mufe, the Cean, dirge

In fome cool grotto facred to the fair, With me and fweet Dione touch a lighter air.

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wanton Mufe, your pleasantries being laid afide, refume the task of the Cean dirge;-feek rather with me for measures of a livelier caft in a grotto confecrated to Dione *.

Dione, a fea nymph, mother of Venus by Jupiter.

ODE