Odes 2.1 (Creech): Motum Ex Metello

SAD Prisoners Guard, and Glory of the Bar
The Senate's Oracle, and great in War,
Whose Faith and Vertue all proclaim;
To whom the German Triumph won
Eternal Fame,
And never fading Glories of a Crown:

The Grounds and Vices of our Wars,
Our Civil Dangers, and our Fears,
The sport of Chance, and turns of Fate,
And Impious Arms that flow'd
With yet unexpiated blood;

The great Triumvirate,
And their Leagues Fatal to the Roman State;
A dangerous Work you write; and tread
O're Flames by treacherous Ashes hid;
Yet this you write, and give to Fame
A lasting Monument of our Fathers Shame:

But hold thy Mourning Muse, forbear
To tread the crowded Theater,
Till Quiet spread o're State Affairs.
Shall lend Thee time for meaner Cares;
And then inspir'd with Tragick rage
Return to the forsaken Stage
And mourn the Faults, and Follies of the Age:

Methinks the Trumpet's threatning Sound
Disturbs our rest with fierce Alarms
And from the shining Arms
A dreadful lightning spreads around;
It darts pale fear through every Eye
The Horses start, and trembling Riders flie:

Methinks the Warlike Captains shouts are heard,
With sordid Dust how Gloriously besmear'd!
In Blood I see the Souldiers roul,
I see the World obey,
All yield, and own great Caesar's sway
beside the stubborn Cato's haughty Soul:

Juno, and Africk's Guardian Power,
That left their ruin'd Seats before,
Unable to revenge their fall;
Hath now on Rome return'd disgrace,
And offer'd up the Victor's race
To great Jugurtha's Ghost, and Hannibal:

What Land is free, what Plain
Not Fatt'ned by the Roman Slain?
What cannot witness by the Graves it shows
Our Empire's fall, whose Noise is spread
O're Persia and the distant Mede
The Sport and Laughter of our smiling Foes?

What Lake unstain'd before
Not knows our War, and swells with Latian Gore?
What Sea's not dy'd? on what unhappy Flood
On what remoter Coast
Have not our Youth been lost
Grown Impiously Prodigal of their Blood?

Enough, my Muse, Complaints forbear,
With me to shady Grots retire,
Thy Mourning cease, divert thy Care;
And there with softer touches move thy Lyre: