LIB . II. Ode II.— THOUGHTS ON BULLION AND THE CURRENCY

My Sallust, say, in days of dearth,
What is the lazy ingot worth,
Deep in the bowels of the earth
Allowed to settle,
Unless a temperate use send forth
The shining metal?

Blessings on him whose bounteous hoard
A brother's ruined house restored—
Spreading anew the orphan's board,
With care paternal:
Murena's fame aloft hath soar'd
On wings eternal!

Canst thou command thy lust for gold?
Then art thou richer, friend, fourfold,
Than if thy nod the marts controlled
Where chiefest trade is—
The Carthages both “new” and “old,”
The Nile and Cadiz.

Mark yon hydropic sufferer, still
Indulging in the draughts that fill
His bloated frame,—insatiate, till
Death end the sickly;
Unless the latent fount of ill
Be dried up quickly.

Heed not the vulgar tale that says
—“ He counts calm hours and happy days
Who from the throne of Cyrus sways
The Persian sceptre:”—
Wisdom corrects the ill-used phrase—
And—stern preceptor—

Happy alone proclaimeth them,
Who with undazzled eye contemn
The pile of gold, the glittering gem,
The bribe unholy—
Palm, laurel-wreath, and diadem,
Be theirs—theirs solely!