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HORACE.

ODE X.

BOOK II.
RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's power:
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep,

Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capp'd eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.
The well inform’d philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain : If Winter bellow from the north, Soon the sweet Spring comes dancing forth,

And Nature laughs again:
What if thine heaven be overcast?
The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.
The God that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,

And lays his arrows by.

If hinderances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But O! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvass in.

A REFLECTION

ON THE FOREGOING ODE. And is this all? Can Reason do no more Than bid me shun the deep and dread the shore; Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea, The Christian has an art unknown to thee. He holds no parley with unmanly fears; Where duty bids he confidently steers, Faces a thousand dangers at her call, And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

THE ROSE.
Therose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd, to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret

On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!

I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground. VOL. I.

U

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part

Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart

Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wiped with a little address,

May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

THE WINTER NOSEGAY. What Nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,

And Winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring,

Though abroad they are frozen and dead. 'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime. While Earth wears a mantle of snow,

These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow

On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely survived

The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has lived

Through many a turbulent year.

The charms of the late-blowing rose

Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows

The truth of a friend such as you.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.

1792.
WHENCE is it, that amazed I hear

From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the

year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud

Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,

To witness it alone?
Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,

For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,

Though not like thee in song?
Or sing'st thou rather under force

Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course

Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long

And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song

Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,

Who only need'st to sing,
To make e'en January charm,

And every season Spring.

THE POPLAR FIELD. The poplars are fell’d, farewell to the shade, And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade: The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse in his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view

[grew; Of my favourite field, and the bank where they And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat, that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat, And the scene where his melody charm'd me

before, Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. The change both my heart and my fancy employs, I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys; Shortlived as we are, yet our pleasures, we see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

THE SHRUBBERY. WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION. Oh happy shades—to me unbless'd!

Friendly to peace, but not to me! How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree!

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