Odes 4.14 (Creech): Quae Cura Patrum

HOw can the Senate's, how the People's care,
Tho All with gifts that swell with honors strive,
A lasting Monument prepare
To make thy glory live,
And thy great Name thro future Ages bear!

O greatest Prince the circling Sun can view!
Whom stout Vindilici unlearn'd in fear,
From glorious Conquests lately knew
How great He is in War,
And felt that all that Fame had told was true.

Brave Drusus led thy conquering Legions on,
And fierce Genauns a stubborn Nation broak;
The furious Brenni's force o'rethrown
Now gladly take the Yoke,
The Glory of their Slavery proudly own.

Strong Castles fixt on Mountains vastly high,
Almost as high as his aspiring thought,
With a repeated Victory
Thrown down; He climb'd and fought
Where Fear or winged Hope scarce dar'd to fly.

Next Elder Nero great in Arms appear'd,
And Rhoeti fought; A sight for Gods to see
What slaughters broak their Souls prepar'd
For Death with Liberty,
And led the Conqueror to high Reward.

As raging Winds with an impetuous Course
When stormy Stars assist, do toss the flood,
So fierce He breaks thro armed force,
Thro Darts and streams of blood
And threatning flames He spurs his eager Horse:

As branched Aufidus doth Moles disdain,
And thro Apulian Fields doth whirl his Waves,
When rais'd by Snow or swoln with Rain,
Against his Banks He raves,
And threatens Floods to all the fruitful Plain.

Thus Claudius violent did in Arms appear,
No Bands, no barbarous Troops his force could stay,
The Front, the Body, and the Rear
Secure he swept away,
And o're the Field He scatter'd dreadful War:

Whilst You your Forces, You your Counsel lent,
What mortal Courage could his Arms oppose?
When to his Aid your Gods you sent,
He thunder'd on his Foes,
And threw among them Slavery as He went.

Since suppliant Egypt in her empty Throne
Receiv'd Thee Lord, the Fates that strive to bless,
Thy Title to the Empire own
By fifteen Years Success;
And still increase the Glory of thy Crown.

The fierce Cantabrian not to be o'recome
Before thy Arms, the Indian and the Mede,
The wandring Scythians lurk at home,
And Thee they wisely dread;
O present guard of Italy and Rome!

The Waves that beat the British monstrous shore,
Cold Ister, Nile, and Tanais rapid stream,
Fierce Spaniards now rebel no more,
And Gauls that death contem
Lay down their Arms, and quietly adore.