Odes 3.29 (Creech): Tyrrhena Regum

MY noble Lord of Royal Blood,
That from the Tuscan Monarchs flow'd,
I have a Cask ne're pierc'd before;
My Garlands wreath'd, my Crowns are made,
My Roses pluckt to grace thy head;
As fair and sweet as e're Praeneste bore.

Make hast, my Lord, and break away
From all the Shackles of delay,
From watry Tibur's Fields retreat:
Let not low Aesula delight,
Nor let her Vales detain thy sight,
Or Parricide Telegonus his Seat.

From thy disgusting Plenty fly,
Thy Palace leave that mounts on high
And hides her head in bending Clouds;
Admire no more (but quickly come)
The Wealth, the noise, and smoak of Rome,
That happy Mansion of our future Gods.

Changes have often pleas'd the Great,
And in a Cell a homely treat;
But sweet and good, and cleanly drest,
Tho no rich Hangings grace the Rooms,
Or Purple wrought in Tyrian Looms,
Have smooth'd a careful brow, and calm'd a troubled breast.

The Dog's and Lion's fury rise,
With doubled beams they scorch the Skys;
The Swains retire to mid-day dreams:
The bleating Flocks avoid the heat,
And to the Springs and Shades retreat;
And not one breath of Air curles o're the Streams.

Whilst You still watch the turns of Fate,
The careful guardian of our State;
Intent on what the Mede prepares:
What leads the quiver'd Persian forth,
What moves the Bactrian, and the North,
Are the distracting Objects of thy Cares.

Future Events Wise Providence
Hath hid in Night from humane Sence,
To narrow bounds our search confin'd:
And laughs to see proud Mortals try
To fathom deep Eternity
With the short Line and Plummet of their Mind.

Those Joys the present Hours produce
Take thankfully, my Lord, and use;
All other things like Rivers flow,
In their own Channels thro the Plain
They fall into the Tuscan Main,
And bless the Country as they go:
When Rain hath rais'd the quiet Floods,
Whilst Neighbouring Mountains all around
Are fill'd, and Eccho with the sound,
They whirl the eaten Rocks and Woods,
And drown the growing Labors of the Plow.

He's Master of himself alone,
He lives, that makes each day his own:
He lives that can distinctly say
It is enough, for I have liv'd to day:
Let Jove to morrow smiling rise,
Or let dark Clouds spread o're the Skys:
He cannot make the pleasures void
Nor sower the sweets I have enjoy'd,
Nor call that back which winged hours have born away.

Still Fortune plays at fast and loose,
And still maliciously jocose,
Her cruel sport she urges on;
Now smiles on me, on Me bestows,
And then upon another throwes
Vast heaps of Wealth, and takes them back as soon.

When e're she stays with what she brings
I'me pleas'd, but when she shakes her Wings,
I streight resign my just pretence;
I give her back her fading Gold:
My self in my Vertue fold,
And live content with Want and Innocence.

When spreading Sails rough Tempests tear,
I make no lamentable Prayer;
I do not bargain with the Gods,
Nor offer costly Sacrifice
To save my precious Tyrian dys
From Adding Riches to the Greedy Floods.

E'en 'midst these Storms I'le safely ride,
My Bark shall stem the highest Tide;
Tho Tempests toss, and th'Ocean raves,
Castor shall gather gentle Gales,
And Pollux fill my spreading Sails,
And bear me safe thro the Aegean Waves.