At his command the storms invade;

The winds by his commission blow; Till with a nod he bids 'em cease,

And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

To-morrow and her works defy,

Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by, To put them out of fortune's power: Nor love, nor love's delights disdain; Whate'er thou gett'st to-day is gain.

Secure those golden early joys,

That youth unsour'd with sorrow bears,
Ere withering time the taste destroys,
With sickness and unwieldy years.
For active sports, for pleasing rest,
This is the time to be possess'd;
The best is but in season best.

The appointed hour of promis'd bliss,

The pleasing whisper in the dark,

The half unwilling willing kiss,

The laugh that guides thee to the mark,

When the kind nymph would coyness feign,

And hides but to be found again;

These, these are joys, the gods for youth ordain.

THE TWENTY-NINTH ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE;

PARAPHRASED IN PINDARIC VERSE, AND INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. LAURENCE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

DESCENDED of an ancient line,

That long the Tuscan sceptre sway'd, Make haste to meet the generous wine, Whose piercing is for thee delay'd: The rosy wreath is ready made;

And artful hands prepare

The fragrant Syrian oil, that shall perfume thy hair.

When the wine sparkles from afar,

And the well-natur'd friend cries, Come away; Make haste, and leave thy business and thy care: No mortal interest can be worth thy stay.

Leave for a while thy costly country seat;
And, to be great indeed, forget

The nauseous pleasures of the great
Make haste and come:

Come, and forsake thy cloying store;

Thy turret that surveys, from high,

The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome;

And all the busy pageantry

That wise men scorn, and fools adore:

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Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the plea

sures of the poor.

Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A short vicissitude, and fit of poverty:
A savoury dish, a homely treat,
Where all is plain, where all is neat,
Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

The sun is in the Lion mounted high
The Syrian star

Barks from afar,

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And with his sultry breath infects the sky; The ground below is parch'd, the heavens above

us fry.

The shepherd drives his fainting flock
Beneath the covert of a rock,

And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

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The Sylvans to their shades retire,

Those very shades and streams new shades and streams require,

And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging

fire.

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,
And what the city factions dare,

And what the Gallic arms will do,
And what the quiver-bearing foe,

Art anxiously inquisitive to know:

But God has, wisely, hid from human sight
The dark decrees of future fate,

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And sown their seeds in depth of night; He laughs at all the giddy turns of state; When mortals search too soon, and fear too late.

Enjoy the present smiling hour;

And put it out of fortune's power:

The tide of business, like the running stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

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And bears down all before it with impetuous force;

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And trunks of trees come rolling down, Sheep and their folds together drown: Both house and homestead into seas are borne; And rocks are from their old foundations torn, And woods, made thin with winds, their scatter'd honours mourn.

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Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He, who can call to-day his own:
He who, secure within, can say,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day.
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,

The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine.

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Not heaven itself upon the past has power; But what has been, has been, and I have had my

hour.

Fortune, that with malicious joy
Does man her slave oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,

Is seldom pleas'd to bless:
Still various, and unconstant still,
But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she 's kind;

But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes the wings, and will not stay,

I puff the prostitute away:

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The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: Content with poverty, my soul I arm;

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is 't to me,

Who never sail in her unfaithful sea,

If storms arise, and clouds grow black;

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If the mast split, and threaten wreck?

Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to gods that will not hear,

While the debating winds and billows bear

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His wealth into the main.

For me, secure from Fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,

In my

small pinnace I can sail, Contemning all the blustering roar; And running with a merry gale,

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