f this Ode, by denying the allegoric interpretation;
and also by insisting that Licinia was the Poet's _own_ Mistress, and
not the mistress of his Patron. It had been absurd, and inconceivably
unmeaning, if, when he was requested to sing the triumphs of Augustus
in the Italian Wars, he should, during the brief mention of them,
have adverted to old fables, uniting them, not as a simile, but in a
line of continuation with the Numantian, and Carthaginian Wars;
unless, beneath those fables, he shadowed forth the _Roman_ Enemies
of Augustus.

The idea that Licinia was the Mistress of Horace, has surely little
foundation:--for it were strange indeed if he could take pleasure in
describing amorous familiarities between Maecenas, and the Person with
whom _himself_ was in love. One of these Critics alledges, as the
reason why this Lady could _not_ be the destined Bride of _Maecenas_,
that it would have been as indiscreet in _him_ to have admitted
Horace to be a witness of his passion for Licinia-Terentia, as it
would have been impertinent in the _Poet_, to have invaded the
privacies of his Patron. It is not necessary, from this Ode, to
conclude that Horace had _witnessed_ the tender scene he describes.
He might, without any hazard of imputed impertinence, venture to
paint, from his imagination, the innocently playful endearments of
betrothed Lovers. The picture was much more likely to _flatter_ than
to _disgust_ the gay, and gallant Maecenas.

2: The Roman Ladies, according to ancient custom, danced with
entwined arms, around the Altar of Diana, on the day of her Festival.

TO POSTHUMUS.

BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE FOURTEENTH.

Alas! my Posthumus, the Years
Unpausing glide away;
Nor suppliant hands, nor fervent prayers,
Their fleeting pace delay;
Nor smooth the brow, when furrowing lines descend,
Nor from the stoop of Age the faltering Frame defend.

Time goads us on, relentless Sire!
On to the shadowy Shape, that stands
Terrific on the funeral pyre,
Waving the already kindled brands.--
Thou canst not slacken this reluctant speed,
Tho' still on Pluto's shrine thy Hecatomb should bleed.

Beyond the dim Lake's mournful flood,
That skirts the verge of mortal light,
He chains the Forms, on earth that stood
Proud, and gigantic in their might;
That gloomy Lake, o'er whose oblivious tide
Kings, Consuls, Pontiffs, Slaves, in ghastly silence glide.

In vain the bleed