We creatures of an hour?
Why fly from clime to clime, new regions scour?
Where is the exile, who, since time began,
To fly from self had power?

Fell care climbs brazen galley's sides;
Nor troops of horse can fly
Her foot, which than the stag's is swifter, ay,
Swifter than Eurus when he madly rides
The clouds along the sky.

Careless what lies beyond to know,
And turning to the best,
The present, meet life's bitters with a jest,
And smile them down; since nothing here below
Is altogether blest.

In manhood's prime Achilles died,
Tithonus by the slow
Decay of age was wasted to a show,
And Time may what it hath to thee denied
On me perchance bestow.

To me a farm of modest size,
And slender vein of song,
Such as in Greece flowed vigorous and strong,
Kind fate hath given, and spirit to despise
The base, malignant throng.

--Sir Theodore Martin

AN INVITATION TO DINE WRITTEN BY HORACE TO VIRGIL

Book IV, Ode 12

Yes, a small box of nard from the stores of Sulpicius[2]
A cask shall elicit, of potency rare
To endow with fresh hopes, dewy-bright and delicious,
And wash from our hearts every cobweb of care.

If you'd dip in such joys, come--the better the quicker!--
But remember the fee--for it suits not my ends,
To let you make havoc, scot-free, 'with my liquor,
As though I were one of your heavy-pursed friends.

To the winds with base lucre and pale melancholy!--
In the flames of the pyre these, alas! will be vain,
Mix your sage ruminations with glimpses of folly,--
'Tis delightful at times to be somewhat insane.

--Sir Theodore Martin

[Footnote 2: Virgil must bring some rare perfume in exchange
for the rich wine, since Horace thus playfully conditions his
invitation.]

THE GOLDEN MEAN

Horace. Book II, Ode 10

Receive, dear friends, 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-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.