On mingled strains of Berecynthian flute
And of the lyre, nor shall the pipe be mute.
There, boys and tender maidens twice a day,
Hymning thy godhead's praise with tuneful lay
In manner of the Salian priests, will beat
Three times upon the ground with milk-white feet.
Me, neither woman now delights, nor youth,
Nor illusory hope of mutual truth,

Nor to contend with revellers in wine,

Nor with fresh flowers my temples to entwine.
But why? ah why, alas! my Ligurine,

Trickle scant tears adown these cheeks of mine?
Why in unseemly silence, why, among

Abundant words, stops short my fluent tongue?
Thee do I, in the visions of the night,

Now captured hold, and now thy nimble flight
Over the grassy field of Mars, and through
The rolling waters, cruel one, pursue.

In B. C. 16 the Sicambri, a German tribe, crossed the Rhine, and defeating the Legate Lollius, laid waste part of the Roman territory in Gaul. Thereupon Augustus went in person to Gaul, and at his approach the Germans withdrew, and, giving hostages, obtained peace. Julius Antonius, son of the triumvir, was a man of letters and a poet. Horace would seem to have been recommended by him to write a poem celebrating the success of Augustus in the style of Pindar's nivíkia, and to have very wisely declined.

WHOSO, Iulus, strives to rival Pindar,

Labours with wings of wax, by art Daedalic

Delectabere tibiae

Mixtis carminibus, non sine fistula. Illic bis pueri die

Numen cum teneris virginibus tuum Laudantes, pede candido.

In morem Salium, ter quatient humum. Me nec femina, nec puer

Jam nec spes animi credula mutui,

Nec certare juvat mero,

Nec vincire novis tempora floribus.

Sed cur, heu! Ligurine cur

Manat rara meas lacruma per genas?

Cur facunda parum decoro

Inter verba cadit lingua silentio ? Nocturnis ego somniis

Jam captum teneo, jam volucrem sequor

Te per gramina Martii

Campi; te per aquas, dure, volubiles.

II. AD ANTONIUM IULUM.

PINDARUM quisquis studet aemulari
Jule, ceratis ope Daedalea

Fashioned; and name will be to sea-tract glassy

Speedily giving.

Like to a river pouring down the mountain,
Which the rains o'er its wonted banks have lifted,
Even so rages, deep-mouthed, rushing onward
Measureless Pindar;

Sure to be gifted with Apollo's laurel,
Whether he roll through daring dithyrambics
Newly-framed phrases, onward borne by numbers
Law disregarding;

Or of gods sing, or kings, of gods the offspring,
Who upon Centaurs merited destruction
Heaped, and by whom of terrible Chimaera
Quenched were the blazes;

Or of steed tell or boxer whom Elean

Palm brings back home, exalted as celestials,
And a reward bestows on them excelling
Hundreds of statues;

Or lamentation makes for youthful lover
Reft from his weeping bride; and unto heaven
Raises his courage, strength, and sterling morals
Cheating black Orcus.

Plentiful airs sustain the swan Dircean
Oft as he soars, Antonius, to lofty

Regions of Cloudland. I in mode and manner
Like to Matinian

Bee, that sweet thyme rifles with mickle labour, Mid the copsewood and banks of wat'ry Tibur, In my small way, employ myself composing

Canzonets laboured.

Nititur pennis, vitreo daturus
Nomina ponto.

Monte decurrens velut amnis, imbres
Quem super notas aluere ripas,
Fervet, immensusque ruit profundo

Pindarus ore;

Laurea donandus Apollinari,

Seu per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis ;

Seu deos, regesve canit, deorum
Sanguinem, per quos cecidere justa
Morte Centauri, cecidit tremendae
Flamma Chimaerae :

Sive quos Elea domum reducit
Palma caelestes, pugilemve equumve
Dicit, et centum potiore signis
Munere donat.

Flebili sponsae juvenemve raptum

Plorat; et vires animumque moresque

Aureos educit in astra nigroque

Invidet Orco.

Multa Dircaeum levat aura cycnum, Tendit, Antoni, quotiens in altos Nubium tractus. Ego apis Matinae More modoque

Grata carpentis thyma per laborem Plurimum, circa nemus uvidique

Tiburis ripas, operosa parvus

Carmina fingo.

Poet, thyself, of a superior order

Caesar shalt sing, when with the well-earned laurel Graced, he shall drag along the sacred hillock,

Savage Sicambri:

Greater than whom or better, to the nations,

Have the Fates naught, nor have the good gods given, Either shall give, e'en though return the golden Epoch primeval.

Holidays gladsome and the city's public

Games shalt thou sing, hailing the re-appearance
Prayed for of brave Augustus, and the forum

Silent from lawsuits.

Then, of my voice, if aught I say worth hearing, Added shall good part be, and 'oh! fair morning' Will I exulting sing, 'oh day praiseworthy,

Bringing back Caesar!'

Nor as thy train moves on, 'Io triumphe!'
Only once will we cry: 'Io triumphe!'
Shall the entire town shout, and to benignant
Gods offer incense.

Thee, will ten bulls and heifers in like number,
Me, a young calf, absolve, which from its mother
Taken, is growing up in ample pastures

Till my vows need him.

He on his brow copies the fiery crescent

Which the new moon displays at her third rising : There, is blanched too with snowy patch, albeit

Elsewhere all tawny.