in war; as it did also Curius with his rough
locks, and Camillus. The fame of Marcellus increases, as a tree does in
the insensible progress of time. But the Julian constellation shines
amid them all, as the moon among the smaller stars. O thou son of
Saturn, author and preserver of the human race, the protection of Caesar
is committed to thy charge by the Fates: thou shalt reign supreme, with
Caesar for thy second. Whether he shall subdue with a just victory the
Parthians making inroads upon Italy, or shall render subject the Seres
and Indians on the Eastern coasts; he shall rule the wide world with
equity, in subordination to thee. Thou shalt shake Olympus with thy
tremendous car; thou shalt hurl thy hostile thunderbolts against the
polluted groves.

* * * * *

ODE XIII.

TO LYDIA.

O Lydia, when you commend Telephus' rosy neck, and the waxen arms of
Telephus, alas! my inflamed liver swells with bile difficult to be
repressed. Then neither is my mind firm, nor does my color maintain a
certain situation: and the involuntary tears glide down my cheek,
proving with what lingering flames I am inwardly consumed. I am on fire,
whether quarrels rendered immoderate by wine have stained your fair
shoulders; or whether the youth, in his fury, has impressed with his
teeth a memorial on your lips. If you will give due attention to my
advice, never expect that he will be constant, who inhumanly wounds
those sweet kisses, which Venus has imbued with the fifth part of all
her nectar. O thrice and more than thrice happy those, whom an
indissoluble connection binds together; and whose love, undivided by
impious complainings, does not separate them sooner than the last day!

* * * * *

ODE XIV.

TO THE ROMAN STATE.

O ship, new waves will bear you back again to sea. O what are you doing?
Bravely seize the port. Do you not perceive, that your sides are
destitute of oars, and your mast wounded by the violent south wind, and
your main-yards groan, and your keel can scarcely support the
impetuosity of the waves without the help of cordage? You have not
entire sails; nor gods, whom you may again invoke, pressed with
distress: notwithstanding you are made of the pines of Pontus, and as
the daughter of an illustrious wood, boast your race, and a fame now of
no service to you. The timorous sailor has no dependence on a painted
stern. Look to yourself, unless