English

BOOK I. ODE XXII .

TO R — — S — — .

The man sincere and pure of ill,
Needs not with shafts his quiver fill,
Nor point the venom'd dart;
O'er him no weapon can prevail,
Clad in the firmest coat of mail,
A brave and honest heart.

Secure in innocence he goes
Through boiling friths and highland snows;
Or if his course he guide,
To where far-fam'd Lochleven's wave

Imitated. — To a Friend.

Dear Tom accept my humble juice,
And with it my good will,
The best that Ramsey can produce
From barley and his still.

Cork'd in my jar that joyful day,
When echo shook your shore,
And John, by edict, ope'd the way
To pass Suir's river o'er.

I know you quaff rich Bourdeaux wine,
None such my bins afford;
Let mirth and whiskey punch combine

BOOK I. ODE XI .

TO MISS ERSKINE .

Enquire not E — — — fair, what end
The gods for thee or me intend;
How vain the search, that but bestows
The knowledge of our future woes!
Far happier they, who ne'er repine
To draw the lots their fates assign;
Then be advis'd, and try not thou
What spells and cunning men can do.
In mirth thy present years employ,
And consecrate thy charms to joy;
Whether the fates to thy old score

BOOK I. ODE VII .

TO THE EARL OF STAIR .

Let others in exalted lays
The lofty dome of Hopetoun praise,
Or where of old, in lonely cell,
The musing druid wont to dwell:
Or with the sacred sisters roam,
Near holy Melrose' ruin'd dome:
There are who paint with all their might
The fields where Fortha's streams delight;
That winding through Stirlina's plain,
Rolls beauteous to the distant main:
Or, faithful to the farmer's toil,

BOOK I. ODE V .

What happy youth, Maria, now
Breathes in thy willing ear his vow?
With whom spend'st thou thy evening hours
Amidst the sweets of breathing flowers?
For whom retired to secret shade,
Soft on thy panting bosom laid,
Set'st thou thy looks with nicest care,
And bind'st in gold thy flowing hair?
O neatly plain! How oft shall he
Bewail thy false inconstancy?
Condemn'd perpetual frowns to prove,
How often weep thy alter'd love?
Who thee, too credulous, hopes to find,

What slender Youth bedew'd with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha? for whom bindst 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 enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
Hopes thee; of flattering gales

How blessed is he, who for his country dies;
Since death pursues the coward as he flies.
The youth, in vain, would fly from Fate's attack,
With trembling knees, and terror at his back;
Though fear should lend him pinions like the wind,
Yet swifter Fate will seize him from behind.
Virtue repulsed, yet knows not to repine;
But shall with unattainted honour shine;
Nor stoops to take the Staff, nor lays it down,
Just as the rabble please to smile or frown.

Virtue, to crown her favourites, loves to try

How happy in his low degree,
How rich, in humble poverty, is he,
Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of strife,
And from the griping scrivener free!
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown,
Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd, with oxen of their own,
Their small paternal field of corn.
Nor trumpets summon him to war,
Nor drums disturb his morning sleep,
Nor knows he merchants' gainful care,
Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamors of contentious law,

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 lived to-day.
Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,
The joys I have possess'd, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

I

Behold yon' Mountains hoary height
Made higher with new Mounts of Snow;
Again behold the Winters weight
Oppress the lab'ring Woods below:
And streams with Icy fetters bound,
Benum'd and crampt to solid ground.

II

With well heap'd Logs dissolve the cold,
And feed the genial heat with fires;
Produce the Wine, that makes us bold,
And sprightly Wit and Love inspires:
For what hereafter shall betide,