Odes 1.2 (Creech): Jam Satis Terris

ENough of Thunder, mighty Jove,
Enough thy flaming Arm has thrown,
Enough hath torn the sacred Grove,
Enough amaz'd the frighted Town:

Lest Purrha's age return'd they fear'd
Strange Age, when from the former floods
Old Proteus drove his scaly Herd
To visit Hills, and glide in Woods:

The Fishes hung on lofty boughs,
Those Seats well known to Doves before,
The spreading Waves snatcht trembling Does,
They swam, and look't in vain for shore.

We saw swoln Tiber backward flow,
And from the Tuscan waves retire;
The Monuments of Kings o'rethrow,
And hiss in Vesta's sacred fire:

Whilst He too too Uxorious flood
Swoln big with fury cuts along
The left-hand banks, though Jove withstood,
To right Complaining Ilia's wrong.

The Youth shall hear that impious steel
Against our selves we madly drew,
Which better haughty Medes should feel,
The Youth our faults have left but few.

What God to prop the falling State
Shall we invoke with earnest Prayers?
How shall our Virgins soften fate,
And weary Vesta's deafned Ears?

And whom to expiate Caesar's blood
Will Jove appoint? Apollo come,
O're thy bright shoulders cast a cloud,
And kindly succour guilty Rome.

Or Venus fair, whom Joys attend,
Whom Youth flies round, and smiling Grace;
Or Father Mars at last descend,
And pity thy decaying Race.

Oh long, too long thy fierce delight
Hath glutted Thee, whom Wars do please
With Darts and Spears, and stern in fight
The frightful Moors unlearn'd in ease.

Or whether chang'd to Mortal Eys
You seem a Youth, Kind winged God,
Nor dost the friendly name despise
Of the Avenger of our Caesar's blood.

Oh Late may You return to Jove,
May quiet Days extend thy reign,
Nor vext at Us in hast remove
To visit happy seats again.

Our Empires Father, Prince, and Guide,
In Triumphs live; Nor let the Medes
Proud in our Spoyls, unpunisht ride
Whilst Mighty Caesar bravely leads.