ODE XXIX.— THE SAGE TURNED SOLDIER .

The trophies of war, and the plunder,
Have fired a philosopher's breast—
So, Iccius, you march (mid the wonder
Of all) for Arabia the blest.
Full sure, when 'tis told to the Persian,
That you have abandoned your home,
He'll feel the full force of coercion,
And strike to the banners of Rome!

What chief shall you vanquish and fetter?
What captive shall call you her lord?
How soon may the maiden forget her
‘Betrothèd, hawn down by your sword?
What stripling has fancy appointed,
From all that their palaces hold,
To serve you with ringlets anointed,
And hand you the goblet of gold?

His arts to your pastime contribute,
His foreign accomplishments shew,
And, taught by his parent, exhibit
His dexterous use of the bow.—
Who doubts that the Tiber, in choler,
May, bursting all barriers and bars,
Flow back to its source, when a scholar
Deserts to the standard of Mars?

When you , the reserved and the prudent,
Whom Socrates hoped to engage,
Can merge in the soldier the student,
And mar thus an embryo sage—
Bid the visions of science to vanish,
And barter yon erudite hoard
Of volumes from Greece for a Spanish
Cuirass, and the pen for a sword?