Odes From Horace. - [1]To Titus Valgius. Book The Second, Ode The Ninth.
By Anna Seward
Not ceaseless falls the heavy shower
That drenches deep the furrow'd lea;
Nor do continual tempests pour
On the vex'd [2]Caspian's billowy sea;
Nor yet the ice, in silent horror, stands
Thro' all the passing months on pale [3]Armenia's Lands.
Fierce storms do not for ever bend
The Mountain's vast and labouring oak,
Nor from the ash its foliage rend,
With ruthless whirl, and widowing stroke;
But, Valgius, thou, with grief's eternal lays
Mournest thy vanish'd joys in MYSTES' shorten'd days.
When [4]Vesper trembles in the west,
Or flies before the orient sun,
Rise the lone sorrows of thy breast. -
Not thus did aged Nestor shun
Consoling strains, nor always sought the tomb,
Where sunk his [5]filial Hopes, in life and glory's bloom.
Not thus, the lovely Troilus slain,
His Parents wept the Princely Boy;
Nor thus his Sisters mourn'd, in vain,
The blasted Flower of sinking Troy;
Cease, then, thy fond complaints! - Augustus' fame,
The new Cesarian wreaths, let thy lov'd voice proclaim!
So shall the listening World be told
[6]Medus, and cold Niphates guide,
With all their mighty Realms controul'd,
Their late proud waves in narrower tide;
That in scant space their steeds the [7]Scythians rein,
Nor dare transgress the bounds our Victor Arms ordain.