Two tender kids, the hopes of all the flock.
Had we not been perverse and careless grown,
This dire event by omens was foreshown;
Our trees were blasted by the thunder stroke,
And left-hand crows, from an old hollow oak,
Foretold the coming evil by their dismal croak.
Translation of Horace. Book I. Ode xxii.
The man, my friend, whose conscious heart
With virtue's sacred ardour glows.
Nor taints with death the envenom'd dart,
Nor needs the guard of Moorish bows:
Though Scythia's icy cliffs he treads,
Or horrid Africk's faithless sands;
Or where the fam'd Hydaspes spreads
His liquid wealth o'er barbarous lands.
For while by Chloe's image charm'd
Too far in Sabine's woods I stray'd;
Me singing, careless and unarm'd,
A grizly wolf surprised, and fled.
No savage more portentous stain'd
Apulia's spacious wilds with gore;
No fiercer Juba's thirsty land,
Dire nurse of raging lions, bore.
Place me where no soft summer gale
Among the quivering branches sighs;
Where clouds condens'd for ever veil
With horrid gloom the frowning skies:
Place me beneath the burning line,
A clime deny'd to human race ;
I'll sing of Chloe's charms divine.
Her heav'nly voice, and beauteous face.
Translation of Horace. Book II. Ode ix.
Clouds do not always veil the skies.
Nor showers immerse the verdant plain;
Nor do the billows always rise.
Or storms afflict the ruffled nain.
