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Or honour with a richer meed
Than all the sculptor's art could trace,
The pugilist, or victor steed,
Triumphant in th’Elean race;


Or with the widow'd bride condole,
Reft of her lord in manhood's bloom,
Extol his grace, his heart, his soul,
And rescue from th' oblivious tomb.


Riding the gale on pinions proud,
The Swan of Dirce soars above
The vast expanse of storm and cloud;
While, like the bee, round Tibur's grove


And banks of mossy verdure, I,
Toiling 'mid beds of fragrant thyme,
My little labours ceaseless ply,
And build with pain my humble rhyme.

Concines majore Poëta plectro
Cæsarem, quandoque trahet feroces
Per Sacrum clivum, merita decorus

Fronde, Sicambros;


Quo nihil majus meliusve terris
Fata donavere bonique divi,
Nec dabunt, quamvis redeant in aurum

Tempora priscum.


Concines lätosque dies, et urbis
Publicum ludum, super impetrato
Fortis Augusti reditu, forumque

Litibus orbum.


Tum meæ (si quid loquar audiendum)
Vocis accedet bona pars ; et, o Sol
Pulcher, o laudande, canam recepto

Cæsare felix.

But thou shalt strike a loftier strain,
When Cæsar, on some glorious day,
Shall lead the fierce Sicambrian train
Of captives, up the sacred way:


Cæsar, than whom, in mercy giv'n,
No greater, better boon we hold;
Nor should do, though indulgent Heav'n
Restor'd the fabled age of gold.


Thou shalt the joyful days record,
The city's public games, decreed
For Cæsar to our pray’rs restor’d,
The courts from anxious suitors freed.


Then shall be heard my joyous lay
(Should aught of mine such honour earn),
Oh, glorious sun! oh, happy day!
That sees Augustus' safe return !


Tuque dum procedis, Io Triumphe !
Non semel dicemus, Io Triumphe !
Civitas omnis; dabimusque divis

Tura benignis.

1 1

Te decem tauri totidemque vaccæ,
Me tener solvet vitulus, relicta
Matre, qui largis juvenescit herbis

In mea vota,


Fronte curvatos imitatus ignes
Tertium Lunæ referentis ortum,
Qua notam duxit, niveus videri,

Cætera fulvus.



And, as you pass, from ev'ry tongue
Triumphant shouts renew'd shall rise;
And thousands to the temples throng,
To pay their grateful sacrifice.

For thee ten bulls, as many cows;
For me a weanling calf shall bleed
In satisfaction of my vows,
Who revels now in


mead :


Dun-colour'd, save of snowy wbite,
Upon his front a crescent blaze;
Shap'd like the horns of silv'ry light
The moon, at three days old, displays.


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