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The pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain)
He shook his miter'd locks, and stern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies' fake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?

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Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,

And shove away the worthy bidden guest;

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Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to A sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought else the least 120 That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy fongs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;

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The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoll'n with wind, and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :

Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace; and nothing faid,
But that two-handed engin at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.

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Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales, and bid them hither cast Their bells, and flowrets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whofe fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,

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Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,
That on the green turf fuck the honied showers, 140
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowflips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To strow the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
For fo to interpose a little ease,

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Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and founding feas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;

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Or whether thou, to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount

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Looks tow'ard Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, 165

For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So finks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And

And yet anon repair's his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas funk low, but mounted high,

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves,

Where other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,

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In folemn troops and sweet societies,
That fing, and finging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,
In thy large recompenfe, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

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Thus fang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,

While the still morn went out with fandals gray,
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the fun had stretch'd out all the hills, 190
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

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XVIII.

The Fifth ODE * of HORACE, Lib. I.

"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rofa," Rendered almost word for word without rhyme, ac. cording to the Latin measure, as near as the language will permit.

W

HAT slender youth bedew'd with liquid odors
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave,

Pyrrha? for whom bind'st thou
In wreaths thy golden hair,

Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he
On faith and changed Gods complain, and seas

Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire!

Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,

Who always vacant always amiable

Hopes thee, of flattering gales

Unmindful? Hapless they

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To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me in my vow'd

Picture the facred wall declares t' have hung

My dank and dropping weeds

To the stern God of fea.

* First added in the edition of 1673.

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Ad Ad PYRRHAM. ODE V.

Horatius ex Pyrrhæ illecebris tanquam è naufragio enataverat, cujus amore irretitos, affirmat esse mi feros.

UIS multa gracilis te puer in rofa
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus,
Grato, Pyrrha, fub antro?
Cui flavam religas comam

Simplex munditiis? heu quoties fidem
Mutatosque deos flebit, et aspera
Nigris æquora ventis
Emirabitur infolens!

Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea,
Qui semper vacuam semper amabilem
Sperat, nefcius auræ
Fallacis? Miseri quibus

Intentata nites. Me tabula facer
Votiva paries indicat uvida
Suspendisse potenti
Vestimenta maris Deo.

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